Unquiet Affair of Rachel Grey & Nathaniel Essex
by Sionnain
Summary: In order to save her family from Sinister's machinations, Rachel Grey decides to do something daring and agrees to stay with him for a month's time, in the hopes he'll finally leave her and her family alone for good. Rachel GreyXMr. Sinister. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Many thanks to Resolute for her amazing beta! **

**Chapter 1:**

_"I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil in his own way."_ Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 1.

Something had to be done about Sinister.

Rachel Grey, sometimes Summers-Grey and sometimes Marvel Girl, slumped over in the shower and braced her hands against the slick tiled wall of the shower. Her hands were shaking slightly in the aftermath of her post-battle adrenaline rush, and she could not help but see the slight tremble as anything but a sign of weakness. The water was scalding hot and felt alternately good and bad; she appreciated the sharp sting of pain as a vehicle which to clear her thoughts, but the uncomfortable heat was making her light-headed. Or maybe that was the replay, over and over again, of the destruction they'd wrought in an attempt to spirit her safely away from that red-eyed lunatic.

Again.

This was the fourth time in three months Sinister had made a play to grab her. No one was entirely sure what he wanted, but as Scott said (not _father_, no, that was just a technicality and one which everyone acknowledged but tried hard to forget), knowing Sinister it couldn't possibly be anything good. Rachel was fairly certain it had something to do with the Phoenix entity, since that seemed to be the only reason anyone every really bothered to try and kidnap her. Then again, Sinister had been obsessed with her family for ages, so who the hell really knew anymore? All Rachel _did_ know was there was a parking garage that was nearly leveled after the fight, and that six or seven innocent bystanders had been hurt in the cross-fire of the battle. Not to mention the damage to her teammates--though slight--that required medical attention and a trip to see Hank in the infirmary.

All because of _her_.

Rachel pushed her hair out of her face and concentrated on washing up, trying to quiet her mind and stop the litany of _your fault your fault your fault_ that seemed insistent on making itself heard in her mind. She knew that they didn't blame her--they'd all had a nemesis at some point, hadn't they?--but it didn't matter. She still felt like that girl in the camps, bringing ruin to her own people as the humans watched with glee.

The taps began to rattle alarmingly. Rachel drew in a deep breath and calmed herself down with effort. This wasn't going to solve anything. The problem was Sinister, and what he wanted from her, and how she was going to keep fighting him off and making sure none of her friends and family were hurt in the process.

Not to mention keeping the Shi'ar off her back. Literally.

Rachel groaned. Some days, it didn't pay to get out of the shower.

_Ray? You okay?_ Rogue's voice, concerned and soft, filtered through the whirl of Rachel's thoughts. _We're all a little worried about you._

_I'm fine_, Rachel sent back, switching off the faucet. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body, noticing the bathroom was thick with steam. _Just having a shower._

_Been in there an hour. Must be some shower, sugar._

Rachel smiled briefly, pleased she couldn't see her reflection in the fogged-up mirror. She was tired--the fight had taken a lot out of her--and she wasn't hiding her markings as she usually did. That didn't really mean she wanted to see them, though. _Yeah. I'm okay. You need me somewhere?_

_Nah. Just rest. We'll have a briefing in the morning. Sorry to bother you._ Rogue's mental presence was gone.

Rachel spared a momentary concern for her friend; Remy's departure after that debacle with Apocalypse was still fresh on the other woman's mind, and she had been more quiet and reserved that usual. Rachel knew how betrayal felt, but more than that, she knew how it felt to be the _cause_ of it--albeit unwillingly--and she spared a momentary thought for Remy, too. Life was so complicated, and it had nothing to do with being a mutant on most days. Maybe it would be easier to just not care about anyone, because that seemed to bring more problems than trying to save the world from would-be overlords or maniacal mutant supremacists ever did.

Still, she was struck with the thought that there had to be a way to ensure that her family and friends were safe from that madman Sinister. Rachel went back into her bedroom, pulling out a pair of black pants and a soft red top from her dresser. The mirror in her bedroom wasn't fogged up, unfortunately, and as she dressed she saw the stark lines of her deathmark on her back, etched in elegant black lines on her skin. The phoenix gleamed around her eyes, and the hound markings taunted her with their very presence.

Anger rolled, sharp like a dagger in her stomach, and she lay on her bed and tried her hardest to breathe through the worst of it, to make all that impotent rage settle back down into the darkened depths of her soul. Rachel hated, _hated_ feeling impotent and useless. She was going to come up with a way out of this dilemma that would make it so she was never again responsible for hurting people she cared about.

The lights began flickering, but she ignored them. She would find a way. She _had_ to.

In the recesses of her mind, the Phoenix began to stir. Rachel closed her eyes and let it come, surrendered to the power of it, and waited for the answer.

"Absolutely not." Scott leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. "That's suicide, Rachel. You can't think we'd allow that."

Rachel resisted the urge to point out that no one had to _allow_ her anything; if Emma had been present, she probably would have said it, since the other woman would have been reading her mind anyway. "Scott, you know that I'm a liability, being here."

"You're not. Of course you're not."

It was hard to tell where Scott was concentrating when you couldn't see his eyes. Rachel could have peeked, but then again, she wasn't Emma. "That's just stupid. Sinister is after us for one reason--me--and you know it."

"Sure. And Magneto was always gunning for the Professor, and Sabretooth's always had it in for Wolverine. It doesn't mean you fight him alone, Rachel. We're a team. We protect each other. It's what the X-Men _do_." Scott stood up, his hands braced flat on the desk as he leaned forward.

"We're not support staff for battles-to-the-death between arch-nemesis, are we?" Rachel's mouth quirked up. "On second thought, maybe we are."

Scott smiled briefly. "No, but you know what I mean. You're one of us. You're family." Scott turned his head just slightly, and his posture tensed the smallest fraction of a degree. Rachel felt the lightest brush of uncomfortable tension emanating from him. "You're _my_ family."

Rachel snorted. "I'm not. I mean, I am, but you're not _really_ my father, and you know it."

"You are my daughter, and Jean's --"

"From another _dimension_--" Rachel broke in, wanting him to stop in this line of thinking. Scott had enough stress in dealing with the obligations he _did_ have not to go around inventing others because of genetic offsprings with a penchant for dimension-hopping. If anything happened to her, she didn't want him to suffer the same devastation he had when her mother had died.

Scott waved a hand. "You're an X-Man, Rachel. And we're not going to let you fight Sinister alone."

"And the Shi'ar?" Her voice was quiet as she focused her attention on the well-manicured lawn beyond the large picture windows in Scott's office. In her mind's eye, she saw the trees ablaze and the yard littered with bodies and Shi'ar warcraft. She shuddered imperceptibly. _No. Not because of me._

"We've kicked their ass before," Scott said with a shrug, sounding remarkably like Logan. "Besides, you're relatively well-hidden here with Emma's psychic shields. As well as you could be anywhere."

Rachel let that pass; she did not have the same faith in Emma's abilities as Scott apparently did. Or maybe she just knew more than anyone how brutally efficient the Shi'ar could be when they tried. "Scott, listen to me. I can't be the reason anyone gets hurt or _dies_ because of this goddamned deathmark on my back, or that mad scientist's fascination with my bloodline--"

"_Our_ bloodline," Scott interrupted, his voice tight. He held up a hand, forcing her to be quiet. "I know we don't discuss this a lot, Rachel, but we _do_ share the same genetic make-up. Maybe Sinister's after both of us, did you think of that?"

"No," Rachel said bluntly, shaking her head. "I have the Phoenix entity. You don't. No offense, Scott, but Sinister's interest in you was to get Madelyn pregnant."

Scott's mouth tightened. "Rachel, you are not going to walk up to Sinister and offer yourself on a silver platter. So stop trying to piss me off just so I'll agree."

Rachel scowled at him. "I wasn't. I'm just trying to do what's _right_."

"This isn't it," Scott said firmly, shaking his head. His voice softened. "I know you're only trying to keep everyone safe. But the world isn't safe. We just have to find a way to live in it anyway. And Rachel, we're your friends. Your family. We'll do this together, and you're going to stay a part of the team."

"Now you sound like a greeting card," Rachel muttered. She crossed her arms and glared at him. "Are you _grounding_ me?"

Scott's lips twitched. "No. Just reminding you of how things work around here. I know you're upset about yesterday, but the way to get this madman off your back--and the deathmark--isn't waltzing up to him and appealing to his better nature. He doesn't have one. Apocalypse saw to that when he stripped Sinister's emotions."

Rachel closed her eyes briefly. "I wasn't going to appeal to anything. I was simply going to find out what he wanted and offer to give it to him."

"What if he wants you dead?"

"He _doesn't_. If he did, he'd just try and kill me." Rachel ran a hand through her short hair, irritated. She'd arrived at the decision sometime during her sleepless night that the only way to stop Sinister was to do something drastic; go to him and see what it was he wanted. Then, he'd leave her friends alone. It seemed so very simple, she couldn't believe it had taken her this long to figure it out. Not to mention, if the Shi'ar came calling, she'd rather it was Sinister that answered the door.

"Everything that man touches turns to ruin. I can't believe you'd even _consider_ this." Scott sat back down. "You're not going to get my permission, so you can save all your reasoning. I'm immune to it. If I can say no to Emma, I can say no to you."

"You say no to Emma? When?"

Scott looked up at her. "Rachel."

She looked back, quiet, though she hadn't really thought he was going to agree. She just wanted him to know what she was doing when he found out she was gone.

Scott wasn't going to be convinced that the good of the many outweighed the good of the one, or whatever other pop-culture _Star Trek_ reference was applicable in this situation. It didn't really matter, because he'd been lying about one tiny little point. Scott wasn't _the_ leader of the team. Scott was _one of_ the leaders of team.

The other one...well. Rachel was fairly certain she wasn't going to have as hard a time convincing _her_ that this was the only way to keep everyone safe. After all, few people had such a well-honed sense of self-preservation than Emma Frost. It was time to appeal to the former-White Queen's more pragmatic nature. Rachel had a feeling Emma was going to see things her way.

Emma was in Cerebra, making notes on a paper and muttering under her breath as she did so. "Come in, Marvel Girl."

Every time Emma said that name, Rachel wanted to hit her. Or maybe that was just her usual reaction to hearing Emma speak. She carefully entered the chamber, fighting the feeling of disorientation it gave her. "I need to talk to you."

"Obviously. I hardly think you came to visit just for the pleasure of my company." Emma was still facing outward, but Rachel could practically _hear_ the smirk in the older woman's voice.

"Look, do you have a minute or not? I can catch you later, if you want," Rachel said testily.

"What is it?" Emma stood up and turned to face her, her mouth set. They would never like each other, despite the fact they'd agreed to stop actively hating each other, and there was a relief in dropping the pretense of it when they were alone.

Rachel didn't mince words as she went through her plan and the reasons behind it, and Emma's mind remained closed tight as Rachel spoke, giving her no hint if Emma was going to agree or not. When she was finished, she stared at the graceful curves of Cerebra's inner chamber and waited for Emma to speak.

"Scott said no, I assume."

Rachel smiled despite herself. "Unequivocally."

"I assumed so. What made you think my response would be any different?" Emma cocked her head, white-blonde hair loose and falling over her shoulders. Emma's outfit was as revealing as ever, but Rachel had gotten used to that.

Rachel met the other woman's calculating gaze with an unblinking stare. "Because. You know that I'm right about this. I put the whole team in danger. Scott can't see past our shared bloodline. He can't see that it's best if I'm gone."

"I don't disagree with you there," Emma said, her voice just slightly edged with something sharp and hurtful. "I'm spending an awful lot of energy keeping those meddling space barbarians from finding you and killing us all. Though Sinister is annoying, he's not terribly threatening--there are more of us than him, you know--and there is always the chance the Shi'ar would spare us and just kill you."

Rachel wasn't sure if she should find Emma's blunt words refreshing or insulting. Then again, that was usually most people's reaction to Emma. "That sounds like you're disagreeing with me."

"Rachel, if you wish to leave and remove the threat of imminent Shi'ar invasion and the rather troublesome attentions of Sinister, I don't see that as a ridiculous plan in and of itself. However, offering yourself to Essex like some proverbial lamb to the slaughter..." Emma trailed off, examining her nails. "That's just stupid."

"I'm hardly a lamb," Rachel said tightly, hands clenching into fists.

Emma looked up and smiled. "No. I guess you're not." Her voice sounded amused. Rachel saw flashes of their battle on the astral plane, and the chair upon which Emma had been sitting began to rattle back and forth, the sound loud in the hushed quiet of the chamber.

"Do control yourself," Emma purred, and Rachel cursed herself for being stupid enough to fall prey to Emma's obvious attempt to bait her.

"He'll leave me alone once he gets what he wants. If he tries to kill me, I can fight him. The Phoenix won't let him injure the host."

"Then why leave at all? Won't you be safe enough from that madman and the entire Shi'ar Empire if the Phoenix is that concerned with your well-being?"

Rachel nodded slowly. "Yeah. No guarantees for the rest of you, though."

"And that is why you want to go." Emma began moving towards her, sweeping towards the door, white cape trailing on the floor. Rachel spared a thought wondering why Emma's outfits never got dirty. It must be stressful, wearing that much white.

"That's why I want to go."

Emma stood very close to her, hand on the control panel that would open the door and admit her back into the hallway. "I can't tell you not to do this. Because as much as Scott likes to think we can order you about like we're the military, we're not. X-Men fight because they're committed, not because you signed some military-esque contract promising your services for a certain amount of time. You are free to leave when you wish."

Rachel gritted her teeth, knowing there was an insult in there somewhere but unwilling to think too hard about it. "I'm committed to saving my friends and family from Sinister or the Shi'ar. This is the only way."

"Then that is what you will have to do. Rachel, I insist on only one thing. Contact me on the astral plane once a week so that I know you're not dead. If you end up chopped to bits on Sinister's altar to science, I am going to resurrect you and torment you for the rest of eternity for having to face Scott's wrath over his daughter-from-the-future's death." Emma scowled. "In fact, I am not looking forward to his reaction when he finds out I gave you permission to go in the first place."

"I thought I didn't need your permission," Rachel said sweetly, following Emma into the hallway. The bright fluorescent lights hurt after the dim softness of Cerebra. "Free to do what I want, and all that."

"You know what I mean," Emma groused, moving towards the elevator. "It is how I see it, not how _Scott_ will see it."

Rachel paused, intending on letting the other woman go alone, unsure her temper would allow for a ride with Emma in such confined quarters. "Just lie to him," she suggested. "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Emma's eyes narrowed, but Rachel had timed her retreating barb to be delivered as the doors closed. Not that it mattered, when one was dealing with a telepath, but Rachel shielded her mind from Emma entirely so as to miss whatever clever rejoinder the other woman threw at her. It was a small victory, but Rachel would take what she could get.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment of a fiend._ Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 2.

Rachel left early the next morning, after typing up a letter for Rogue and sticking it on her friend's door. It was mostly a rambling treatise about how sorry she was and how she hoped her friend understood what she was doing, and also a bit of unasked-for advice about Remy. She sealed the letter and stuck it under Rogue's door, then made her way out of the house. It was chilly and there was a definite bite of winter in the air; Rachel pulled her coat tighter around her and looked up at the mansion. Dawn had recently broken, throwing stripes of pink and soft orange across the winter sky. Rachel took a deep breath and turned her back, hoping her friends would forgive her when they woke up and found her gone.

_I have to do this._

She'd gone out for necessities last night and left the car parked at the end of the drive, but she still winced as she turned the key and started the car. She wasn't sure that Scott would actually wake up and bound after her in his pajamas, but she wasn't going to take any chances. No one followed, however, and she angled the car towards the highway with grim determination.

Emma had used Cerebra to get a lock on Sinister's location. She had the London address in her pocket and a ticket on the next flight out of JFK, and hopefully the telepathic mutant wouldn't know she was coming. She would rather surprise him, if it were possible, and gain the advantage. She was going to have to be on her toes about this one. He was crazy, Sinister, but he _was_ a genius.

Her cell phone rang while she was sitting at her gate in the airport, sipping a latte and idly flipping through a magazine she wasn't reading. The number on her Caller ID was the mansion. Rachel swallowed nervously and looked around, almost as if she were expecting the other passengers to accuse her of running away from home. Which she was kind of doing, but only so they didn't end up dead. Surely anyone would understand that?

Rachel eyed the man sitting a few seats over from her, thought about asking him if he would understand the situation if he were her, and then decided that that sort of validation was both unnecessary and stupid. How would she even ask that? "Excuse me, but if you were being targeted for death by an alien race and were being pursued by an immortal scientist from Victorian London, would you leave so that your superhero friends wouldn't have to fight your battles, thus sparing their lives and the life of the man who will one day be your father but not because your dimension ended?"

Yeah. They were going to ask her very nicely to leave the airport if she tried that one. Rachel slumped down in her seat and turned her phone off, and then decided to leave it in the taxi once she arrived in London.

When she'd bought her ticket, she'd thought about asking for business-class, but the price at such late notice had been astronomical. When she found her seat was between a harried mother with four children under seven, Rachel went back up to first-class and sat down in a seat she knew was empty, then used her powers to make sure no one was going to bother her about it. It made her feel sort of bad, as if she were doing some immoral. Something Emma would do.

_No. Emma would have paid the first-class price, despite the fact it cost the same as a house._

That really didn't make Rachel feel any better.

The flight was on time and the take-off was smooth, and she used her mental powers to keep herself shielded from the Shi'ar, from the flight staff who would know she belonged back in coach, and keeping the markings on her face from showing. Some days, Rachel found herself rather exhausted from the effort of all the psychic shielding. When she thought too much about it, though, she became angry. She was having a hard time lately controlling her anger, which sometimes resulted in her telekinesis going a bit haywire. That was the last thing she needed on an airplane full of innocent people.

That would be ironic if, in her attempt to save everyone she loved, she ended up killing herself and a bunch of humans. Ironic in the way that made you kind of want to cry.

Rachel sighed and looked out of the window, wondering what she was going to do when she got to London. What if Sinister wasn't there? Should she just go in and wait for him to show up? What if he really _did_ want to kill her? What if she had to fight him and then go back to the X-Men, tail between her legs, admitting Scott had been right all along?

That was a depressing thought, which was sort of silly, but Rachel had enough of her parents' genetics to be stubborn. And she hated being wrong. _Maybe if I can save them all, it will make up for everything I did in the camps._ No doubt that was a ridiculous correlation, but it was how she felt. Rachel leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, mentally drafting her speech to Sinister. Somewhere in the middle of it--she had to start over a lot, as the first few versions involved a lot of cursing and some violence done to his person--she fell asleep.

It was late evening by the time she cleared customs and collected her luggage, and she was shivering as she waited in line for the taxi. The paper with Sinister's address was in her fingers, and her mouth tasted like dust as she gave the cabbie the street name. She wasn't sure he was even _there_--it was the last place Emma could get a lock on with Cerebra--but it made the whole thing less of a plan and much a reality as the cab driver went hurtling through the streets of London. He was loquacious and friendly, but she hardly knew what he was saying as his accent was thick and sharp. Still, the way he spoke was almost soothing and she found herself breathing easier, watching the city pass by in a blur outside of the windows.

"'Ere we are then," the cabbie announced, after what felt like ages in the car. Sinister didn't live as far out of town as she'd thought, but then again, he was _from_ London and probably knew how to blend in, and where to live to not have neighbors who would ask questions about strange noises or monsters or an army of clones.

"Yoo need 'elp w'i your luggage?"

Rachel blinked, shaking her head and climbing out of the car. "No," she said quietly, placing her hands on the tops of the two suitcases and using her telekinesis to move them, though she pretended that she was actually carrying them. She put the suitcases on the sidewalk in front of Sinister's house and paid the cabbie a lot more than she should have, both from nerves and her unfamiliarity with the currency.

He tipped his hat to her and drove away, and there she was, staring up at the windows of a house just as she had that morning when she'd glanced up at Xavier's. The air was still cold, but this time, there was no lingering sense of familiarity and loss reflected back in the cold darkened glass.

Just foreboding and a sick, nervous twist in her stomach that she may not live to see anything other than the interior of this house, which looked suddenly ghastly and inhuman, as if the door would open and its gaping maw would devour her very soul--

Rachel stumbled backwards, her heart in her throat, suddenly terrified and wanting nothing more to get as far away as possible. Then she realized that beneath the fear there was something else, an energy pulsing soft and almost unnoticeable, that was causing her reaction. He'd warded the house psychically, so that no one would want to enter, and if she hadn't been psychic she probably would have missed it.

Clever. A small precaution, to keep most humans away, making them think his house was some sort of towering chasm of death. Except that it probably was, but they would have to go in to know that. Only an idiot would enter a house with that kind of aura.

_An idiot, or me. Huh._

Rachel forced her shields up and noticed that the only negative emotions were her own. Which still wasn't pleasant, but at least she wasn't worried she was going to be eaten by the man's _house_, for God's sake. Rachel forced herself to climb up the stairs and knock on his door before she could think twice about it. If he wasn't home, she didn't know what she'd do. She'd deliberately dropped her cell phone in the gutter while waiting for the taxi at the airport, so calling Emma to get a lock on his location would involve finding one of those Dr. Who-phone booths and learning how to use a calling card.

Or, shouting really loud on the psychic plane and hoping Emma could hear.

The wind was chilling, and she was beginning to wish she'd remembered to pack her gloves. Rachel blew on her hands, tapping her foot impatiently, figuring if she had to, she'd just go inside and wait for the psychopath to come home and surprise him. The thought made her smile, though it hurt as her face was very cold.

Eventually, the door opened. The man who was standing in front of her looked like any ordinary person, and for a moment, Rachel thought she had the wrong address. Then she gave a half-laugh as she realized what it was. "Clever. No need to pretend for my sake, though. I'm psychic, too."

"I suppose you are." Sinister's appearance wavered, and there he was; white skin, red eyes, dark black goatee and slicked back black hair. He was wearing black pants and a black shirt. The diamond on his forehead had the effect of making him look angry. His visage reminded her of a bust of Caracalla she showed slides of in the art history class she taught at Xavier's.

Had taught. Whatever. "No cape at home, huh?"

"What are you doing here?" Sinister cocked his head, making no effort to invite her in. "To say I am surprised would be an understatement."

"I thought I'd stop by. You know. Maybe kidnap you. See how you like it."

He smiled wider, which was creepy because his eyes were fathomless red and she was pretty sure he wasn't actually amused. "I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you," he said in his clipped accent, which, like the house, seemed both antiquated and vaguely--well, sinister. "I'm not interested in accompanying you anywhere."

"Yeah, well, would you believe I had the same thought when it came to you?" Rachel was beginning to feel quite foolish standing on his front porch in the freezing cold. And she was hungry. And jet-lagged. Maybe she should have spent the night in a hotel and then showed up in the morning. So much for forethought.

"Yet here you are. How did you know where I live?"

"Would you believe it's in the phone book? Under _Sinister, M_?" Obviously, she was taking her nerves out in the form of trying to antagonize him, which was stupid but sort of made her feel less violently inclined to want to melt his brain into goo.

"Have you a death wish of some kind?" He cocked his head at her, his gaze considering.

"Nope. A deathmark, but not a death wish. And Emma found you with Cerebra. You used your powers here recently."

"Ah. I suppose I shall have to do a better job in shielding my whereabouts in the future. Are you perhaps waiting for me to begin some sort of battle to the death, then?" He sounded vaguely interested in the prospect, but not especially worried. Which annoyed her, as well as the fact she couldn't see where he was looking. On Scott it was sort of endearing. On Sinister it just made her want to smack him.

"Look. I'm here alone. Which is stupid to admit, but you're telepathic and you know I'm not lying." Rachel lowered her psychic defenses, though her instincts were lining up to tell her exactly why that was dangerous. Possibly with the use of visual aids.

He stared at her with those unblinking red eyes, then veiled them for a moment. He had thick eyelashes, though why she noticed, she wasn't sure. "You are telling the truth."

"Yup. Wanna hear why I am here?"

"Undoubtedly."

Rachel rubbed her arms with her hands. "Could I come inside? I'm freezing."

"No." He smiled at her again. She wished he wouldn't do that. "Talk. You have three minutes before I teleport you somewhere extraordinarily more uncomfortable than here."

The Phoenix mark glowed on her face. He sucked in a breath, but his expression didn't waver. She thought maybe she saw his eyes darken to a deeper red, but that was probably a trick of the light. "I'm tired of you trying to kidnap me and putting my friends in danger. I'm here to make a deal where you get what you want, and then you leave me and mine alone. Interested?" She kept her psychic shields down, let him see that she was serious.

"There is something else," he said quietly. She was struck by the fact they'd never exchanged this many words before. Which was really for the best, but there was a small thrill in being so close to a man who had terrorized her family for generations. If by _thrill_ she meant _violent urge to kill him_.

"Yeah. I'm getting to that. Anyway, I'll give you until the first of January to do...whatever it is you want. Unless it's kill me," she pointed out, crossing her arms. "Then I'm leaving. Anyway, poke me, prod me, do whatever as long as isn't something I'm going to have to kill you for when you're done. Then you let me go, and we go our separate ways. _Forever_."

He studied for a moment, then stepped back and gestured her inside. "Come inside. You have my word I will not kill you. That has never been my intention."

"Yeah, well, you'd kill everyone else to get to me," she reminded him, pulling her suitcases in with her telekinesis. His house wasn't much warmer than the street, but at least there was no wind. It was too dark to really see, but it looked like a museum. "Cheerful place."

"We are all a creature of our age," he said with a shrug, then turned and walked down the darkened hallway and opened a door. "Come in here. Would you care for some tea?"

She was momentarily shocked speechless, then cautiously made her way into the room. "With arsenic in it?"

"No, unless that is how you prefer it? It would certainly explain that poisonous tongue of yours."

"Are you lecturing me on my manners, guy-who-tries-to-kidnap-me-and-has-done-so-to-my-entire-family?"

He turned elegantly and nodded. "Apparently so. Sit." He waved his hand towards one of the low chairs, which looked very uncomfortable. Rachel sat anyway, her back ramrod straight, her focus sharp and intent. She'd admire the scenery later. Maybe. Antiques bored her. "Tell me why you are here."

"It's like this. I know you think you're a scientist--" she paused as his mouth tightened, feeling a wave of genuine danger from where he sat. Antagonizing him was stupid, and she had to reign in her temper. Apparently she'd found Sinister's sore-spot. Call him a psychopathic murderer and you were fine. Insult his intelligence, on the other hand... "You're a scientist, and you want something from me. Everyone thinks you want to kill me or clone me. You don't want to clone me, do you?" She looked dubiously at him. She hadn't even thought of that.

"You are so very charming, Miss Summers, I cannot imagine why the world would not benefit from having two of you in it," he drawled sarcastically. "No, I merely wish to study your genetics and how you function as the host for the Phoenix entity."

"Right. So I'm here. You can do that. Then I can leave, and this is ended. Forever." She leaned forward. "Got it? And it's Miss Grey."

He let the correction to her name pass unmentioned. "And the other reason? I do not flatter myself that you think I am enough of a threat to necessitate offering yourself to me."

Rachel flushed. "Hey, watch it. _Experimenting_. Not...whatever else you depraved mad scientists do."

"The experimentation is enough, believe me," he said, and his low voice was almost a purr. "Now answer my question."

His autocratic tone set her teeth on edge, but she answered him regardless. "I have the entire Shi'ar empire gunning for my death. If they find me, they'll kill me."

"_If_ they find you. Do you require my services in hiding your whereabouts?"

"Not really. I mean, I can do it. Emma was doing it, too, but you are telepathic so it would help. It's just, if they find me? I'd rather it be you going down with me than my friends, my family." Rachel narrowed her eyes. "I don't think they'll find me. But if they do? You're on your own."

"So your deal is essentially this; you will live in my house for one month and allow to perform my genetic experiments upon you, as long as they do not kill you or result in a clone--"

"And no, like, screwing up my biological functions or something," she interjected. "If I end up with kids with a diamond on their forehead--"

"Unlikely unless Apocalypse returns from where he drifts amidst the stars, but I shall keep that in mind. In return, I shall shield you from the Shi'ar and leave your friends and family out of any further scheming of mine."

"Yes. And..." Rachel sighed, having arrived at the hardest part of her plan to admit, the part she'd barely admitted to herself. "I want to understand. What you find out. About the Phoenix. So I can finish it with the Shi'ar, once and for all, when the time comes."

"One little girl against an empire?" Sinister laughed darkly. "That should be a sight to behold."

"I'm not a little girl," Rachel bit out, angry. "And the Phoenix? It can destroy worlds, Sinister. It can destroy them. Once I figure it out."

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "I'm certain it can," he said simply. "Very well, Miss _Grey_, I accept your bargain." He stood and crossed the room to her, staring down at her. He wasn't smiling, for which she was grateful. "Shall we shake on it?"

Rachel stood up, but that put her entirely too close to him for comfort. She couldn't back up, not with the furniture behind her. She nodded and squared her shoulders. "Sure." She held out her hand, though the expression on her face was probably one of pure loathing at having to touch her.

Sinister's hand wrapped around hers. His skin was cold, but other than that, it felt like the hand of any normal man. "Some things I do to you...they may hurt. Physically. Mentally."

"I'm used to it, Sinister. Believe me." Her hound markings flared. "I've survived worse."

"And you shall not tell anyone where you are. If I wake up and there is a cadre of X-Men in my morning room, I shall be most displeased," he warned, and his hand tightened around hers.

Rachel struggled not to give him the satisfaction of wincing. "Right. I'll have to tell Emma I'm not dead, but it's okay. No one will come." She hoped not, anyway.

"One more thing," Sinister said, and she huffed and tried to pull her hand free to no avail. "Stop hiding those markings on your face."

She blinked, having not expected him to say that. "I don't like them. Why do you want to see them? Because it hurts me?"

He released her hand. "No. Because you are here for me to study you. They are part of you. Follow me." He turned, the gesture once again strangely elegant, and began walking out of the door.

Rachel followed him, nervous, wondering what she had just done. She was beginning to have the thought that this could go nowhere good, but it was too late now to do anything about it. She caught sight of herself in one of the round mirrors in the hallway as she followed him, and saw her markings glowing softly against her skin. Rachel turned her head away. There were some truths she was not yet ready to face .


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks everyone for reading! Thank you esp. to Void Sprite for catching a canonical error that I've edited out in Ch. 2. Much appreciated and I am really appreciative you took the time to let me know!**

**In this chapter, Rachel and Sinister have a little chat about lodgings, and the Phoenix has a few things to say to Essex.**

**Chapter 3**

_"It can make no change. You do not understand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange--a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking."_--Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 3.

The room Sinister showed her to was spacious and well-appointed, though he made a comment about it being rather stuffy and needing to be aired out.

"Didn't you have a place where you were going to put me?" Rachel asked wryly, depositing her bags in the center of the room. "Like a dungeon or a cell or something?" She looked around with interest. "I so didn't expect you to live in a place like this."

"What were you expecting? Hill House?"

Rachel laughed before she could stop herself, then glared at him, annoyed he'd made her laugh. "Dr. Frankenstein's house. A castle. Something to benefit your mad-scientist persona."

He gave her a sly sort of smirk. "The laboratory is in the basement. Perhaps that will be more to your expectations."

"That's where you were going to put me, isn't it? I totally wouldn't have gotten a bedroom if you'd kidnapped me."

"Oh, the room had a bed in it. Now, do be mindful that the heat is a radiator. Do not set anything on it, else it may catch on fire."

Rachel looked at him, fighting a surge of hilarity that she was standing in what looked like a bed-and-breakfast being lectured about radiator heating by _Mister Sinister_. "Um. Okay."

"The bathroom is through there," he said, still sounding very polite, pointing towards a door at the far end of the room. "If you wish an additional tour of the house, I shall be happy to provide it."

"Do you sleep in a crypt somewhere?" Rachel demanded, unable to stop herself.

That same sense of danger she'd felt from him downstairs returned once more. "Of course not. Are you going to remain this unpleasant the entire time you are here?"

She smiled challengingly. "Maybe."

"Ah. Just curious. It shall be a long month, I imagine, if you are to remain so impolite."

"You know, you have quite a history of being a _dick_ to my family, Sinister, and you have a lot of nerve calling _me_ names--"

"Are you sure you came here willingly? I'm beginning to think that perhaps you were sent here on purpose. I would not necessarily blame your family for sending you away, if you are as charming at home as you are here."

One of the lamps decorating the bedside table lifted in the air and went sailing towards his head. Sinister laughed--which was a sound she could really go without ever hearing again--and raised his hand. There was a flash of bright, iridescent light, and the lamp shattered. "I may not have your level of skill with telekinesis, Miss Grey, but I am quite able to hold my own against flying objects." He narrowed his eyes, and the pieces of glass rose into the air and deposited themselves in the trashcan.

Rachel considered raising them again and putting the lamp back together just to show off, or flinging all of the pieces right into his damned eyes. She did neither of those things, however, merely took a few moments to control herself before deliberately turning her back on him. "Are you going to start experimenting on me now, or could I maybe have something to eat?" She looked over her shoulder at him thoughtfully. "You do eat, right?"

"The blood of infants," Sinister said, without missing a single beat. "Of course I do. I am immortal, not dead." He headed towards the door. "I shall fix you something. Have you any allergies of which I should be aware?"

"Nope." Rachel set about unpacking her suitcase, finding something soothing in the normalcy of such behavior. The rest of this situation was entirely too bizarre for words.

"Right. I shall let you know when it is ready."

She happened to turn with a sweater in her hands as he said that, and she blinked as he gave her what appeared to be a very polite bow before leaving her alone. What a wierdo. He liked to cut people up and clone them, but he avoided using contractions and he bowed when he left a room. She'd rather hear him end a sentence with a preposition than try and create any more siblings for her in the future. Rachel shook her head and finished her packing, then carried her things into the bathroom. As she arranged her toiletries on the sink, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Funny. She'd been so caught up in baiting Sinister, she'd totally forgotten about her marks. Rachel averted her eyes and continued putting her things away. There was no shower, she noticed, but the claw-foot tub was large and looked inviting. Maybe she'd take a bath later. What the hell. If she pretended this was a vacation, maybe that would keep her from trying to kill him.

Maybe.

Dinner was just short of surreal; she sat on the opposite end of the table and tried not to ask him if the food was human flesh or brains like in that _Indiana Jones_ movie. He passed her a plate of something, and upon closer examination she decided it some kind of baked fish with a sauce on it. She nibbled it cautiously, then looked up at him in surprise. "This is good."

"I have had a long time to learn how to cook," he said, shrugging. "You sound as if you expected me to feed you something horrid instead of a proper meal."

"I don't expect you to do anything nice," Rachel said, pointing her fork at him. "Ever."

"Possibly there is a difference between _nice_ and _polite_." He waved his hand and leaned back in his chair. "There are certain manners one must have when one has a guest in one's home."

Rachel stared at him. "Yeah. And there are certain manners one should have when it comes to other people. Don't try and kidnap them. Don't clone their moms. That kind of thing." Rachel took another bite of her dinner.

He didn't looked particularly bothered. "Those types of rules only get in the way of science, so I have no particular use for them."

"You really believe that, don't you?" Rachel shook her head and pushed her plate away. She had no idea what time it was with her jet-lag, and this was all starting to sound like a very bad idea.

"Of course I do. I have my convictions, whether you approve of them or not."

Rachel looked at him, _really_ looked at him, for the first time. She studied the strange red diamond on his forehead, glowing the same soft red as his eyes. His eyes were lined with black, like Egyptian statues often had, but she could not imagine him using eye make-up. He had dark hair which was pulled back in a low ponytail; she'd never realized his hair was long before. He also had a goatee, which he probably thought he needed because he was evil or something, though he kept it shaved relatively close to his face.

"Is there some reason why you are staring at me?"

"I just haven't ever looked at you before," Rachel said bluntly. "Except for when I was trying to make you go away." She peered at him thoughtfully. "I really don't know a lot about you. No one does." Maybe there would be an additional bonus to staying here with him; learning his weaknesses, a way to defeat him. If he became a nuisance to her descendants or something. She could pass it along like some kind of family recipe.

He was studying her just as intently, yet they were both making a conscious effort to block their thoughts from one another. "Likely you believe you know all you need to about me," he said, sipping at whatever he was drinking. It looked like wine. She was rather miffed he wasn't sharing.

"The bottle is in the kitchen," he said smoothly, and Rachel glared across the table at him. He held up his hands. "You were thinking it rather loudly."

"You could just not listen," she groused, and concentrated on finding the bottle in the kitchen. She brought it to the table and poured some, but she had to use her hands as her telekinesis was shaky and would have resulted in her spilling wine on the table. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking she was discomfited in his presence, nor did she want him to think there was anything wrong with her control over her telekinesis.

Even if both of those things happened to be true.

"One could argue that you should not lower your defenses by drinking when you are in the enemy's lair," Sinister pointed out. Rachel had the distinct feeling he was toying with her. He still had that pleasant, rather remote expression on his face, but there was something about his voice that suggested he was amused.

"Yes, well, we're not enemies. Wait. We are, but we're...we have a temporary truce." Rachel narrowed her eyes and gestured towards him with her glass. "You better agree with me."

"Truly? Shall you do something horrendous to me if I do not?"

She rolled her eyes and slumped back in her chair. "No. I'm going to keep my end of the bargain, no matter how annoying you are. Too much depends on it."

"You put a great deal of emphasis on your family. More so than you do your own life. I find that interesting for one such as yourself, who has had to endure many hardships to survive."

She stared at him, shocked. "Have you not ever loved anyone, ever? Even before you were called _Sinister_ and were a normal guy? If you ever were," she muttered, irrationally angry that he, of all people, was questioning her choices about loyalty.

There was the slightest tightening of his mouth, and once again, she had the impression that his eyes darkened in hue to a deeper red. "You strike me as being very fixated on family and everyone else before yourself, as if you deserve no such consideration. Possibly that is a shortcoming of yours."

"I am really not interested in your pop-psychology analysis, thanks," Rachel said tightly, standing up. "You gonna wake me up in the morning to play doctor or do I just come downstairs and find your laboratory? Should I follow the cackling or will Igor escort me to master's workroom?"

Sinister smiled at her again, which made his face look like one of those comedy masks in the theater. Except if it were hanging on your wall, you'd want to accidentally slam the door so it would fall and hopefully break. "I am afraid I had to let Igor go. So very difficult to find reliable help in the mad scientist circles. Why, in this day and age, they expect you to pay them a fair wage." He clucked his tongue and chuckled, but Rachel didn't join in. Let the madman amuse himself if he wanted. "Tomorrow morning is soon enough. I shall provide a proper breakfast, of course. You are of no use to me if you are not in top physical form."

There was a chandelier that hung over his table, and it began to vibrate. Rachel felt the furious rush of the Phoenix rise up, like a tide of burning white inside of her, and the anger and rage washed over her out of nowhere. "When this is over, you'll be lucky if I don't kill you." Her voice sounded faraway, as if she were speaking from a tunnel. There was a clarion ring to the words. She could feel the burn behind her eyes and the leashed power of the being for which she was host, pushing against all of her self-imposed restraints.

Sinister half-rose from the table. "Extraordinary," he breathed, and something about his obvious interest in her more otherworldly nature was pissing her off.

Rachel was levitating half off of the floor, her arms at her side, and she could feel the hot brush of wind as it stirred to life around her. "As always, you play with forces you will never understand." Her voice shifted and changed as the Phoenix spoke, and Rachel felt that familiar sensation of being held captive to its whims. "She will lay waste one of the gifts your master Apocalypse gifted upon you."

"Will she, now," Sinister said quietly, rising to his full height. "And what shall she destroy of mine, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"

"To lay waste, one does not always have to destroy. As you well know, Nathaniel Essex, creation can be just as deadly as destruction." Rachel felt her mouth curve into a smile, tinged with fire. "No harm shall come to the host that will result in her life-force dimming. Beyond that, I shall bide my time and judge your worth, when this has finished between you."

Sinister inclined his head politely, and Rachel felt her feet touch the ground. She stumbled forward, bracing her hands on the back of the chair. Her mouth tasted like ashes and she was trembling. In her head, she could still feel the echoes of all that power, beating like wings against her skull.

"Impressive. Do you require an escort upstairs?" Sinister held his arm out to her. "You seem a bit unsettled."

Rachel stared at him, forcing her breathing to even out. "Get. Away. From. Me," she bit out, edging towards the door. The Phoenix hadn't been that strong in a long time. She could feel all her power and the impotent _rage_ that always came with it--_no good for anything, doesn't help, a nuclear bomb you'll never use trapped inside, because the world would end and you couldn't stand the force of it, not like your mother, never be as good as her, and she's dead and you're alive and all anyone wants is her and not this betrayer, this poor substitute--_ washing down like rain and drowning her mind.

The chandelier above the table shattered. Rachel turned and ran, blindly, leaving him covered in shattered glass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it some times appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content._ Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 4.

Rachel had no idea what to expect from Sinister the next morning, but their first full day of "genetic experiments" were really rather dull. He took some blood and carried it off in a vial to some machine that shook and spun it, and asked her a great deal of questions about her family and her experiences through all of her dimension-hopping. He examined her eyes and tested her reflexes, and if it weren't for the red eyes and the soulless-ness, she would have thought she was having a physical.

His demeanor was perfectly polite, and was efficient and almost clinical as he moved about his laboratory. She had expected dank, moldy stone and tables with restraints, but it looked a bit like McCoy's infirmary; gleaming stainless steel, state-of-the-art equipment, a computer. Even file cabinets.

"I bet you make Oxford jealous," she quipped, watching as he scribbled something down on a clipboard. "All this equipment. I bet it's stuff they'd love to have."

"They have it, I'm certain," he said, obviously paying little attention to her. "It is state of the art equipment." He smiled briefly. "I did not steal it from them, if this is your roundabout way of asking."

She shrugged. "Not really. You took blood. No clones, right?"

"No, no clones. Biochemical analysis of your chromosomes is my first priority." He studied his notes carefully. "I shall inform you if you are the genetic carrier of any sort of disease, though I highly doubt it."

She really didn't want to ask, but she did anyway. "Why?"

He looked almost startled at her question. "The Phoenix would hardly have selected you as a host if you were somehow at risk, and my manipulation of your bloodline has been to ensure quality and longevity."

"Gee, thanks," she said sarcastically, her fingers curling into her palms.

"You did ask," he reminded her carefully, then turned and went back over to his computer. "Your family line is extraordinarily strong, healthy, and viable."

"Then why do they keep being killed off?"

"External influences. Not disease, or genetic irregularities," he explained, continuing to do whatever it was he was doing with the spinning machine, making the occasional note with his pen. "Outside forces which, alas, are not ones that are usually controllable. You, of course, have extraordinary power to control your surroundings and the thoughts and behaviors of others." Sinister looked up at her, and she was startled at how dark a shade of red his eyes were. "You are nearly perfect, Rachel."

She flushed slowly, unable to look away from him. "Do your eyes change colors? I mean, the red. Because sometimes I think they do." She wasn't addressing what he'd just said. It was way too creepy.

He blinked, his features registering momentary surprise at her question. "I do not know."

"Is everything red? I mean, the way you see it. Like my fa--like Cyclops," she amended quickly, blaming the slip on all this talk of bloodlines and genetic inheritances.

"No. I see as normally as you, though I do have excellent vision at night. When my appearance was first altered, I saw things with a slight tint of red, though that has faded over the years." His brow furrowed. "Possibly it has not, and I have only become used to it."

"Do you remember? What color they were before?" She cocked her head at him, suddenly curious as to what he'd looked like before he'd looked like the man in front of her.

"I seem to recall they were light in color, though the memory has admittedly faded somewhat. I think perhaps they may have been green, though I could be incorrect about that."

"Don't you have any pictures? I saw a lot of pictures in your house, old-fashioned looking people in hats."

"Most of those were here when I bought the house. Also, it would be rather difficult to ascertain my eye color in a picture that was sepia-toned, yes?" He smirked at her.

Rachel flushed, feeling suddenly stupid. "Yeah. I guess so." She watched him for a few minutes, noticing the way he worked with utter and complete concentration. Her skin was suddenly prickling with awareness. She took a deep, even breath, wondering what was going on. "Um...you pissed or something?"

"I have not had anything to drink since that port last evening, no," he responded, flipping a piece of paper over on the clipboard. "I could not tell you the last time I over-indulged. In liquor."

The feeling of imminent threat grew worse. Rachel slid off the cold steel table, inching towards the door. "That's not what I meant. Pissed as in angry."

He looked up. "No. Why?"

She shivered, looking around. "Something...don't you feel that?"

He set the clipboard down on the counter, and stared at her. Rachel stared back, completely thrown. He was still as death before her, and his face was so devoid of emotion he looked like a statue. "I do not feel anything," he said quietly, then turned away. "That will be all for now. Do find some way to amuse yourself. I shall call for you when I need you again."

He was blocking his thoughts from her, but she knew somehow that he'd been lying.

oooooooooOOOOoooooooo

Rachel spent most of her day being very nosy and poking around house. It was a four-story townhouse, if one counted the basement, and the only place she'd not entered was his bedroom. She expected he slept in some black-shrouded bed, or maybe a coffin. The thought amused her.

There was really no abundance of personal information to be gleaned about him from her explorations thus far; if he had a personality, the only place she'd seen evidence of it was in his laboratory. Though she found herself a bit surprised by his book collection--he tended to favor Dickens, Shakespeare, and even had a few more modern books as well. She pulled Shirley Jackson's _The Haunting of Hill House_ from the shelf, remembering his earlier comment about her expectations of his house.

Rachel had only ever seen the movies--both the good one and the horrible remake with Owen Wilson--so maybe she'd read this one for something to do. What was surprising to her was there were entire _shelves_ of classic Victorian horror stories--Robert Louis Stevenson's _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ and Henry James' _Turn of the Screw_ among others--and it was the single most personal thing she'd learned about him. He liked to read. It was strange to imagine Sinister curled up in front of his fireplace with a good book, but then again, maybe it wasn't.

Even supervillains needed downtime, she supposed. Rachel took her book and went back into the room with all the furniture, none of which was very comfortable, and started reading. As she had when watching the movie, she found herself sympathizing with Eleanor. The poor woman, who had given everything in her whole life to her family, couldn't even borrow the car and drive off for a weekend on her own. And her stupid sister and brother-in-law got the house after Eleanor spent all that time taking care of the mother? How unfair.

Rachel knew no good was going to come to Eleanor, but she still wanted the poor girl to go to Hill House anyway. _Go do something for yourself for once._ Unbidden, Sinister's words from earlier came back to her--_You strike me as being very fixated on family and everyone else before yourself, as if you deserve no such consideration_--and she gave a little shudder. Was she going to end up like Eleanor? Driving her car into a tree just so she could stay in a house with dead people because it was the only place she'd ever been happy?

Suddenly, Rachel wasn't so certain she wanted to read anymore. Then she reminded herself that she actually _liked_ her family, and that this was just a book. There was no sense getting all worked up about fiction when she had a madman in the basement to contend with, was there?

Sinister re-appeared and informed her he was still running some tests on her blood, and for her to help herself to lunch. His eyes lingered on the book she was reading--at least, she thought they did--but he made no remark about how she'd raided his library. She eventually made her way to the kitchen and fixed herself a sandwich, which was about the only thing she really could cook.

She wondered if he was hungry, but then decided it would be a little too nice to ask. She took her sandwich and a glass of milk and went back into the morning room, and read as the sun sank below the horizon and the sky turned to twilight. The book was scarier than the movie, and by the time she reached the part where Eleanor and Theodora were holding hands beneath the covers, she was sufficiently freaked out enough to put it aside for a little bit.

"Are you enjoying the book?"

Startled, she looked up from where she'd been staring out of the window and saw him where he stood in the doorway. He moved quietly, but she chided herself for letting the book and her own thoughts lull her into her complacency. She needed to remain alert at all times and remember that despite his incredibly polite manners, he was still insane. "Yeah. Scarier than the movie. I feel bad for Eleanor."

"I rather thought you would say that. She was a poor frightened little mouse of a thing."

"I bet you liked ol' Hugh Crane, yeah?" Rachel asked, standing up. She stretched and reached her hands up over her head, feeling the pleasurable pull in her muscles. She needed to work out at some point. She wasn't used to being sedentary, and while lazing around was good for the soul on occasion, a few more days of it and she was going to be very restless.

"I was actually rather fond of Dr. Montague," Sinister responded.

"Oh, right. You have a lot of horror stories, I noticed." She didn't apologize for borrowing the book. What would be the point? He would know she wasn't really sorry.

"I enjoy tales of ghosts and other such supernatural phenomena," he said, gesturing for her to follow.

"More tests? It's late, isn't it? Or do you do your best work under the light of the full moon?"

He stopped and turned around, looking vaguely annoyed. For some reason, that made her feel good. "Do you know how incredibly childlike you act, Rachel? I know you are young, but your responses veer towards hostile or a rather bratty young adolescent. It is incredibly tiresome and it results in my wishing to drug you so that you are quiet."

She put her hands on her hips, glaring up at him. She hated that he was taller than her. Rachel was fairly tall for a woman at five-foot-seven, but he was nearly a foot taller than her. "I'm a lot less bitchy to people I like."

"I do not particularly care if you like me, but I am tired of your vitriolic barbs. Possibly this will go easier on the both of us if you would just cooperate?"

"I _am_ cooperating," she reminded him, following him not down into the basement, but into the dining room. Apparently, he'd fixed dinner already. How the hell long had she been reading? "This is as good as it gets."

"I am afraid it is not good enough," he said, and something about that phrase hit every single nerve she had and a few she wasn't aware existed. It reminded her of being spit on, of being forced to hunt her own kind, of being a thing used by an entity that could destroy the world if it wanted. Of Emma's sly smirk, of the mother she'd never known dying in a burst of flames, of her family's pain and struggle just to survive. Of this madman in front of her, acting as if he had any right to speak of her family, when he'd spent more years than she'd been _alive_ trying to capture and contain and exploit them for his own sick ends.

Good enough to be used, always. Never good enough for anything _else_.

Rachel did something she hadn't in years; she reached back and slapped him, right on the face, viciously pleased to see the red marks left on his deathly pale skin from the force of her blow. There was something imminently satisfying about feeling the sting on her palm.

He stared down at her impassively, and then backhanded her. Rachel cried out, surprised, and stumbled backwards. She raised a shaking hand to her face, pressing her fingers against her swollen bottom lip. No one had hit her since the camps, when she'd been punished or just abused because her human captors thought it was funny to try and make her cry.

"I could _melt your brain_, you fucking psycho," Rachel said in a low voice, trembling with rage. "Don't ever do that again."

"I would suggest, if you do not wish me to strike you, that you do not initiate such violent behavior in the first place." He pulled out her chair for her, which was completely absurd yet somehow expected.

"I thought it would be against your stupid Victorian manners to hit a lady," Rachel snapped, ignoring his gesture. She felt very strange. Her face hurt, but the pain was...not entirely unwelcome. Usually when she was this angry, things were rattling or breaking. The Phoenix sometimes stirred, but now...everything was quiet. Calm.

"Now you know better. Sit." He crossed his arms. She wasn't mistaking it now, his eyes really _were_ darker. She took that as a sign he was angry, too, and it made her feel good to know that she had riled him up. The pain thrummed in her veins and pulled her focus away from all that rage to the throb in her lip. Rachel sat, watching him warily.

He passed her the plate of whatever it was he'd made--roast of some kind, tonight--and she sucked on her bottom lip, pressing against the bruised flesh with her tongue. It was then that she felt a sudden surge of hot, fierce energy thrust at her, and it hit her low in the stomach and made her suck in a sharp breath. She jerked her head up, startled, but the force of it was gone as soon as she realized from where it was coming.

Him.

Her eyes met his across the table. She tried reading his thoughts, but he was as blocked to her as he'd ever been. Everything about his entire countenance screamed to her that she should leave him alone, that if she pried he may just turn violent. She looked down at her plate, her fingers trembling, and picked up her fork.

The moment passed, and they finished the meal in silence. Rachel did not see him again that night, for which she was glad. She wasn't sure that she wanted to know what had happened, and what it might have meant. That night, while she washed her face and prepared for bed, she found her attention more focused on her swollen lip than her markings around her face. Curious.

She didn't want to think about that, either. Rachel took her book and climbed into bed, but she was too distracted to read. She lay awake and stared at the ceiling. She wondered if Hill House affected Eleanor like Sinister did her; that same mixture of fear and adrenaline, anger and fascination. If so, maybe Rachel was in more danger than she realized.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_"No," said the other." I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed."_--Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Affair of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 5.

The days slipped by in more or less the same fashion; he usually did some kind of physical testing on her in the morning, which was sometimes painful and sometimes wasn't. If he hurt her, he would apologize in his politely chill voice, and she would stoically look away and grit her teeth and force herself not to make a sound when his long fingers wrapped around her wrist, trying to ignore the cold press of his flesh against hers. She didn't like that he touched her, and she didn't even bother hiding her reaction because she'd rather he know that up front. Still, she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of making a sound.

She usually had time to herself in the afternoon, and spent it reading. A few times she thought about venturing out in London, but that would make it easier for the X-Men to find her if they had disobeyed her wishes and gone looking for her. She had a chilly conversation with Emma where she assured the other woman she was indeed still alive. Emma's response had been brief and terse; obviously, she was reaping the unfortunate repercussions of Rachel having left to find Sinister. Emma promised that she'd not told the others were Rachel was, but Rachel wasn't sure if she could believe Emma or not. She opted to err on the side of caution and stay in the house, which was blocked from anyone's psychic inquiries after Sinister had found out how Rachel had found him in the first place.

She'd followed _The Haunting of Hill House_ with _The Turn of the Screw_, which was as creepy as the last but in a completely different way. Maybe it was because she'd never read it, and Rachel didn't know how the story was going to end.

After lunch, which he never ate, she would go downstairs and he'd ask her questions about her past, her family, and her powers. A few times she had to demonstrate for him of what she was capable with her telekinesis or her telepathy, which was oddly satisfying as it allowed a release of some of the tension she could feel building up inside of her. A few times he'd addressed the Phoenix, but while it had stirred briefly it had never seen fit to grace him with its presence as it had before. Mostly it remained quiet, swimming beneath the surface, still there but unwilling to interfere.

They would eat dinner together, and then he would vanish back downstairs for the rest of the evening. Rachel took to soaking in the bath with a book and a cup of tea before bed, in a futile attempt to relax. She wasn't sleeping well, and her dreams were beginning to shift into nightmares. At night she was forced to relive some of her more horrendous moments in the camps, or the moment when the Shi'ar nearly destroyed her entire family. Mostly it was the camps, however, and the nightmares were as bad as they'd been in _years_. Part of her blamed it on Sinister's examinations, coldly clinical and often painful, which reminded her of the way the doctors treated her for injuries after a hunt.

There were other memories, too. Hands holding her down, laughter, touches that went places that made her ashamed and sick. Luckily, nothing he'd done to her had stirred _those_ particular images.

Her poor sleep was making her cranky and irritable, a fact which he noticed readily. He offered her something to help her sleep, but Rachel had asked him just how stupid he thought she was? His response had been that she'd shown up at his house all by herself and submitted to his medical and scientific examinations, so possibly she didn't want him to answer that. She'd deliberately left that alone, but the stress of holding in so many things--physical and emotional pain, restless energy, anger at his callousness, fear for her family--all of it was starting to get to her.

The nightmares were getting bad, however, and a few times she considered breaking down and asking him for something after all. It was as if every single horror that her human captors had inflicted upon her was being magnified by a thousand-fold; every death for which she'd been responsible, every moment of terror and loneliness, ever perceived failure of hers, all of it had coalesced into a barrage of images tormenting her nightly.

Tonight it was the worst; she stood at the crumbling, smoking ruins of Xavier's mansion, while the Shi'ar laughed and sang warsongs of victory amidst the bodies of her fallen teammates. Someone came towards her with a collar and she was forced down to her knees while the hated metal was forced around her neck. What was left of her family was paraded before her, and she was going to have to _kill them all_, and it was just like the camps and there was _nothing she could do_ and the only sound she heard were the chants and the laughter.

Rachel was screaming, flailing against her bods. The Shi'ar were her human jailers and her mouth tasted like dirt and sickness and death--

"Rachel!"

The voice penetrated through the fog of her terror and her eyes flew open. She was levitating six inches off the bed, and every object in the room was floating amidst an ominously swirling psychic wind. She turned her head to face the figure in the doorway, and for a moment, she didn't recognize him. It looked as if his face was enshrouded in darkness. It took her a moment to realize his hair was unbound from his usual queue, loose about his shoulders, and wet from the look of it.

"I won't let it happen ever again." Her voice was ravaged, torn.

Sinister held his hands up, moving into the room cautiously. "You are having a nightmare." He sounded as calm and collected as he usually did, which only served to enrage her further.

"My life is a fucking nightmare," she responded, her eyes wild.

"Yes, well, be that as it may, I do wish you would cease this and return yourself--and the room--to normal. This behavior is not solving anything."

She rose up and ended up levitating in front of him, the energy around her crackling with her fury. The objects in the room began to stretch and lengthen, spin and tumble over each other as the very matter of which they were created altered under the press of her powers. She heard something hit the wall and shatter, and the glass sounded like rain.

She felt him trying to use his mental powers, the slightest press of him against her mind. He was very powerful, and his presence felt cold and unwelcome. She shoved a burst of mental energy at him on the astral plane, which caused him to stumble backwards. Rachel smiled in vicious pleasure. "Can't do that, Sinister. Stronger than you."

"I do not see your Phoenix mark glowing as it did the last time she graced us with her presence," Sinister said, entering the room once more.

"That's because this is just me," Rachel informed him, lifting her hands. "I can make the molecules in this room do whatever I want." Things were still smashing against the wall. The bedding was twisted around her, and the dresser drawers were banging against the frame with alarming force.

"I see," Sinister said, sounding singularly unimpressed with her pronouncement, and then he did something that she would not expect. Instead of fighting her with his powers--either his telekinesis or telepathy, or those energy bolts she'd seen him use before--he struck her across the face, forcing her backwards with a stinging slap against her cheek. Startled, Rachel careened back and then stared at him from where she stood, her feet planted once more on the floor.

She was breathing hard, her hands clenched into fists. Some of the objects that were swirling around began righting themselves, though she was still furious.

"Now, if you would like to be so kind as to put this room to rights and return to bed, I should be most appreciative."

Rachel flew at him, making a sound of impotent rage, and she lost track of what happened next. They fought in tandem--she kicked him, he kicked her back with a vicious low blow to her stomach. She cried out when he hurt her, nausea rolling as she struggled to breathe. As she fought, the room settled back around her, and the unearthly wind and her fear was slowly receding. The only thing of which she was aware was him, rushing at her, and countering his attacks with her own. Pain broke like lightening over her skin, but oddly, she welcomed it.

He was larger than her and physically stronger, though she was quick and hardly a weakling herself. She ended up on her back on the floor with him on top of her, pinning her wrists to the floor, but it took a great deal of effort on his part to get her there. "Are you going to calm down now?" he panted, breathing hard. The floor pressed into her back and his fingers were like a vise around her wrist. He was going to leave bruises when he released her.

She stared up into his gleaming red eyes. "Maybe. Don't know. Get the fuck off me." She kneed him in the stomach, satisfied at the sound of his pained grunt.

He didn't release her, but he pressed his arm against her throat across her collarbone. "Do stop. This is tiresome."

"Could...melt...your...brain..." Rachel reminded him, gasping shallowly as he restricted her air.

"Yes. However, that is not the action you have chosen to take." He stared down at her. "I am playing by the rules you have set. If you change them, then so shall I." He was shielding but not enough; she knew she had inflicted pain and that he too was suffering an adrenaline rush, and that part of him liked how she was trapped beneath his body. She struggled instinctively, as old fears rose up to try and choke her.

What happened next was confusing; she kicked out, twisting, trying to knee him in the groin. He moved to the side, his hand in her hair, trying to subdue her. Rachel felt like an animal struggling to free itself from a trap; her face burned where he'd hit her, sweat dripped into her eyes and mouth. They rolled twice on the floor, and at some point she ended up scratching his face hard enough to feel the flesh tear beneath her nails. He hissed and slammed his palm in her stomach, but she turned and took the brunt of the blow on her back at the last second. Pain blossomed out, spreading in a low wave against her back. Crying out, she used her powers finally to fling herself away from him, and he stood up and remained across the room from her, standing near the door. They both stared at each other, breathing hard. His face was bloody. Her body felt like she'd been hit by a truck.

Rachel didn't know what she expected. She almost expected him to try and kill her. Instead, he cocked his head, several strands of dark black hair falling across his face. His eyes were as dark as read as she'd ever seen them, crimson swallowed by black. His words, when he spoke, took her completely by surprise.

"Do you feel better now?"

She blinked at him. Her body was humming, despite the pain. She felt..._good_, beneath the rush of adrenaline and the fear that he was going to retaliate. "Yeah," she said, shocked into honesty. Rachel had sparred before, but never...never like _that_. Not with someone she hated. Not where it was so...violently satisfying...to hurt them. To be hurt. What was the _matter_ with her?

He stared at her, and again, she felt that same surge of heat emanate from him and curl, tendril-like, in the pit of her stomach. She recognized it from the last time they'd engaged in physical violence. Stumbling back, she shook her head, trying to clear it. She felt confused by her emotions and the strangeness of feeling his. "I--you should put something on your face."

"I beg your pardon?" His voice was almost strangled. She'd never heard him display that much emotion in his voice before. He was tense and still looked poised for battle, but he no longer looked like some coldly unemotional statue. She knew that should be dangerous, but his predatory stance and that low purr of warning his voice was actually making her heart race.

_From fear._ It had to be. But she wasn't afraid. Rachel didn't want to think about it. She took a cautious step closer. "Your face is bleeding. From my nails." She couldn't help herself, and smiled. It had felt good, to do that, to sink nails into flesh.

He didn't smile back, but she had the odd sensation he was not exactly displeased with her display of vicious pride. He reached up and touched his fingers to his face, and then looked down at them, his white skin smeared with blood. "So it is. I shall attend to it."

"You have any aspirin? My back hurts where you sucker-punched me."

He scowled. "Where I _what_?"

She was standing in front of him now, her head tilted back as she looked up at him. "You were trying to sucker-punch me. In the stomach."

"I was trying to get you away from me," he said, looking down at her. His pale skin made the blood look more pronounced on his face. His eyes were still dark, though no longer as near black as they'd been when they'd been fighting.

"Your eyes really do change colors," she informed him, and then, for no reason she understood, reached up and touched her fingers to his face. His skin was cold beneath the press of her fingers. She wasn't sorry she hurt him. She was proud. It didn't make any sense.

He moved backwards, and she felt something push her away; his power with force-fields, probably. "Do not touch me," he hissed. There was still tension between them, and she knew it wasn't just her, but his mind was locked closed to her completely. He was standing half in darkness, and Rachel was standing in the cold white spill of moonlight on the hardwood floor. The symbolism was not lost on her.

"You need to put something on that or it will scar," she insisted, unsure why she was bothering. Why should she care if Sinister had marks from her nails on his face? Maybe he'd learn to stop provoking her. She swallowed past a lump in her throat.

"I have regenerative powers. I shall be fine in the morning. You should go to bed, if you are able to sleep."

She couldn't look away from his gaze. There were times she thought he was staring at her and he wasn't--it was hard to tell because of his lack of pupils--but this time, she knew his attention was as firmly fixed on her as hers was on his. "Aspirin, Sinister?"

"Of course. Follow me." He turned and disappeared into the darkness. Rachel followed him into the only room she'd not yet explored, which was his bedroom. She didn't really want to go inside, but what choice did she have? Her heart was hammering as she followed him into the bedroom. It was dark, but she could make out a large four-poster bed and an armoire, and a chair by the window. It was sparsely furnished but not entirely uncomfortable.

He had an en-suite bathroom, which had to have been a recent addition. There was a large claw-foot tub as there was in hers, though his had a shower. He went searching through a medicine cabinet, pulling out a bottle and handing it to her. She checked it carefully, unsure if she should trust him.

"It is indeed aspirin," he said quietly. She realized the bed was still made in his bedroom; he hadn't been sleeping, either. She wondered what kept Sinister up at night, but didn't really want to ask. She peeked into his mind enough to know he was telling the truth, and unscrewed the bottle.

"Thanks." Rachel shook two out, and he filled up a glass with water next to the sink and handed it to her. She swallowed, wincing at the chalky taste, and handed him back the glass. His fingers brushed hers as he took it back, and she felt a rush of electricity at the contact.

Rachel stared up at him. They were standing too close together, and the bathroom was suddenly too small. She felt claustrophobic, but there was a curious lack of panic. It was as if all of her receptors were dulled from their earlier encounter. The glass levitated itself back to the basin, though she wasn't certain which one of them did it.

"Do you need anything to help you sleep? I shall give you something, if you wish."

Rachel felt herself flush, slowly, her body heating as a wave of something unexpected swept over her and curled low in her stomach. His words sounded almost like a threat. Why did she find that--

_No. Not arousing. I'm just...tired. Sleep-deprived._

"You did already," Rachel responded carefully. She needed to leave his bathroom. His house, too, probably.

He inclined his head at her, the gesture reminding her of a bow. "Then I shall bid you good night." He sounded tired himself, and raked a hand through his hair. He seemed more human to her in that moment than he ever had; as if there really was a man beneath the monster she knew him to be.

"Did you--" she shook her head, not wanting to ask but needing to know. "You couldn't sleep either," she said, looking at herself in the mirror. For once, it was easier than looking at someone else.

"No," he said carefully, as if he didn't really want to answer.

"Now you can, though." She knew she was right, without even having to peek inside his mind to find out.

He didn't try and deny it. "Yes. I imagine I shall sleep fine, now."

Rachel looked back at him. Her scratches had almost faded, but she could still see the outline of her nails against his pale face. "Good night." With that, she left him there and went back to her bedroom. She closed the door and leaned against it, trembling, wondering what in the hell had just happened.

Nothing good, that was for certain.

Rachel went bed, still worrying about what had transpired between them, but not enough to keep her from sleep. She slept until the sun broke through her window, falling like a warning across her face, and she slept without dreams.


	6. Chapter 6

** Thanks to all who are reading! This chapter features some violence, bdsm-themes, and slight dub-con. Please be advised of the warnings (nothing is explicit). Also, Sinister's inventive way of calming Rachel down was indeed one favored by doctors in Victorian England.**

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**Chapter 6**

_You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning..._ Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Affair of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 6.

Rachel tried to forget that strange incident between her and Sinister, but it wasn't easy.

Why did she find it so much easier to calm down when someone hurt her? Surely there was some pop-psychiatry explanation, but she didn't care to know what it was. He had scared her last night when he'd forced her on her back and had trapped her beneath him. Rachel had a thousand scenarios all ready to burst into nightmares from that sort of forced physical interaction, but they never appeared, strangely enough.

How in the hell had that led to a good night's sleep? God. What the hell was wrong with her?

They'd been civil to each other the next morning, though she found herself annoyed the marks on his face had faded so quickly. She'd woken up with bruises encircling her wrist from his fingers, and her back was purpled from the impact of his blow. Her cheek was sore, too, from where he'd slapped her. Yet she spent a lot of time idly rubbing her wrist, pushing in against the bruises and feeling the sharp bite of pain with satisfaction. It made her angry when she thought about how she'd gotten them, but it made her a little calmer, too.

He caught her at it, when she was in the lab. "Why are you doing that?"

Rachel looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "Habit. I've been hurt a lot." She didn't want him to see her taking any pleasure from what he'd done to her last night.

"Never learned to leave well enough alone, have you?"

The slightly amused tone in his voice made her narrow her eyes. "Fuck off," she snapped, crossing her arms. She grabbed at the material of her sweater in order to keep from pushing at her bruised arm again.

"You have such ladylike manners. Now, I wish to know about the camps. When you were there, how did they control your mutant powers?"

Rachel started out explaining the power inhibitors and how they worked, but as she talked, all that impotent rage boiled up inside of her once more. She had to struggle to keep it at bay. Was she never going to be free of this, ever? Certainly she could remain as clinically detached as him, couldn't she?

"I am curious as to why you hate yourself so much for what you were forced to endure there," Sinister asked from where he sat on the chair in front of her. It was like being at the doctor's office, if your doctor was a red-eyed mutant with a glowing diamond on his forehead. Who was evil. And had just beaten you up.

"I know you don't get it, but I feel bad that I betrayed my people," Rachel said slowly, feeling her control begin to slip. "I hunted my own kind and _killed them_."

"Yes, and you were being controlled by those who were in position of power over you. It is not as if you willingly agreed to participate, yes? I hardly think such self-loathing is necessary, especially after all this time."

"Because I am a person with a conscience," she said slowly, enunciating each word. "Who has feelings. And sometimes they are not rational. But I was responsible for the deaths of innocent people. I felt their life end, I heard their screams. I heard them pleading, and I did it anyway."

"You had no choice."

"It doesn't matter!" she shrieked, pounding her fist on the cold table upon which she sat. It was her bruised hand, and it hurt as she slammed it down. The pain felt good, cleansing. She did it again, liking the strike of bone-against-metal. "I still _did_ it. And don't say I didn't have a choice again. As if you were the first genius to think of _that_ response." She stared up at the ceiling and tried to control her breathing.

"Did you enjoy it?"

She looked back at him, unable to hide the shock on her face? "What?" Surely he didn't mean...

"When you killed. Did you enjoy it? Is that secret behind your pain and your horror at what you did? Somewhere deep inside, did you like it when they screamed, did you enjoy watching them die? Have you never admitted to anyone the shameful secret of how you liked what they made you do?"

"How can you even...why..." Rachel thought she was going to throw up. Or maybe kill him. Rage was choked her, acrid and hot like bile.

"I only ask because you have some deep-seated hatred against yourself what you were forced to do. Since, as you tell me, I am not the first to point out that you had no reason to feel guilt over something which was forced upon you, I am left to ponder other, deeper reasons."

"And you think I'm some sicko that likes murdering people?" Rachel looked down at her hands. They were trembling.

"You tell me," Sinister purred, leaning forward. "Are you?"

She flew at him in a rage, sobbing, hands out like talons. She was going to rip his eyes out, tear out his foul tongue. _How dare you talk to me like that, you psycho, how dare you trivialize what happened to me--_ She wasn't stopping him from reading her thoughts; she was no longer in control enough to block anything.

He used his powers to slam her back down against the table. "I do not think that, Rachel. Would you like to know what I think?"

Rachel felt something attach to her wrists and her ankles, and realized he'd used bonds to restrain her. She thrashed, frightened, thinking only of the camps. Deep down, she knew she should be able to use her telekinesis to break free, but she was too upset to do anything but struggle. Her head hit the metal, over and over, as she slammed it down in her efforts to free herself. Pain was immediate and bursting in yellow behind her eyelids. "Fuck you."

He stared at her without speaking, apparently impervious to her insults.

Rachel finally got herself under control enough to free herself from her bonds, but he used his own powers to force her back down again. She needed to calm down. She needed to control her wits, make him think she was complacent. She stopped struggling but leaned up on her elbows, glaring at him through her hair that was covering her sweaty, flushed face. "Sure. Enlighten me, Essex."

"When you were forced to kill one of them...they did not give you something to take away the horror of what they were doing, did they?" Sinister was leaning over her, and all she could see was the burning red of his eyes. His face was very close to hers; they'd never been this physically close to each other before.

"They liked it," she panted. "They liked to know how much I hated it. How it killed me inside. Of course they didn't take away the horror. That was their favorite part." Her arms pulled against the restraints, but she kept her powers in check.

Sinister leaned down until his mouth was next to her ear. "And every time you watched them die, Rachel, you imagined they were your handlers. Every brutality they forced you to commit, you supplanted the faces of your victims with the faces of your tormentors. And that was the only way you kept yourself alive, kept from losing your mind. So, yes, Rachel, I think part of you enjoyed it, and it is my professional opinion that is the very root of your anguish."

No one had ever put it into words before, though at one time, she thought the Professor had tried. Rachel knew on some instinctive level that to hear it spelled out so nice and neatly might have broken her fragile psyche, especially after what happened with her family and the Shi'ar. Sinister had no such compunction about sparing her feelings.

And he was right.

Rachel threw her head back and screamed, as if the sound was dragged up from the depths of all her pain and all her suffering, and she pulled against her restraints and shouted and flailed. The leather straps cut cruelly into her arms as she struggled, rubbing the skin raw. She cursed him, her jailers, the Shi'ar, and even the mutants who had never bothered to defend themselves or try and kill her. Her powers surged but he must have been doing something to keep her more destructive tendencies at bay, though she was unaware of most everything but her own inner turmoil.

_All those eyes, staring at me, pleading while I killed them. Inside I knew I had to, or they'd kill me. My own life was worth more than theirs. I should have refused. I should have just killed myself. I should not have killed others so that I could live. Never..._

And then there was the truth he had so brutally forced upon her, that she had stared at her hapless victims in their death spasms and yes, she had imagined the faces of her jailers in their place.

"It was the only way I could survive!" Rachel pleaded, as if she needed something from him, as if he could grant her absolution for the horrors of her past.

"Then why are you so angry? You only did what you had to do." He was watching her with a completely remote expression, as if her pain was nothing to him.

And it wasn't. That, in the end, was what made her so _angry_. That she was falling prey to every vicious thought she'd ever had about herself, and the only one here was _him_. It all became too much. She stared at him, hollow-eyed. "I'm worthless. Now you know the truth. Aren't you lucky."

"You are certainly not worthless. Your bloodline is impeccable, your powers are phenomenally strong--"

"Kill me!" Rachel shrieked, beginning to sob, though there was no relief to be found in her tears. "Better you than the Shi'ar. Just...God, I just want it all to stop!" She wailed again, head thrown and then there was a sharp crack against her face as his open palm met her cheek.

"Do stop with the histrionics," Sinister drawled. "You have been through all of this pain and suffering in order to keep yourself alive, what good would it do to end it now that you have survived it and it is all behind you?"

The more rational he became, the more she lost herself and struggled and screamed. She was hoarse, and sweaty, and there were tears running into her mouth and nearly choking her. "You don't understand. You're a monster. So am I. But I don't want to be one."

"You are melodramatic, overly emotional, and delusional," he corrected, smacking her hard on the other side of her face. "I am sick and tired of hearing you refer to yourself in this fashion. You are not a monster. Believe me, little one, I am well-acquainted with monsters."

"Because you are one," she gritted out, glaring at him.

"Yes. And you are not. Now calm down, and stop this ridiculous overreacting. You are a strong and capable woman who did what she had to in order to keep yourself alive. Survival is the basic of all instincts. All of this melodrama is completely unnecessary. You are not the first who have had to do terrible things to survive, and you shall hardly be the last." He stared down at her imperiously. "Grow up, and stop being so childish."

That was too much. She used her powers to release her bonds, the buckles snapping open and the leather pulling away from her chafed skin, and launched herself at him once more, thinking only that she wanted to make him _hurt_. "You know nothing of pain, Essex, unless you're causing it. Maybe you should learn." She reached inside herself, desperate to feel the touch of the Phoenix. With his powers and hers so evenly matched, they would fight to a stand-still but nothing more. With the Phoenix...she would _show him pain_.

There was nothing there, though, but her own rage and helplessness. _See? Worthless. You can't use the Phoenix. Only your mother could do that, as true Host. You are a substitute. Not good enough. Never good enough._

Her wrath made her sloppy, and eventually he was able to hit her hard enough to send her flying backwards and crashing against the cabinets in the back of his lab. She'd managed to toss objects at him and hit him a few times, but he had the luxury of not being incapacitated with rage and his blows were far more strategically calculated to fall on places that would make her falter and fall.

One particular blow hit her so hard on the side of the head, she lost consciousness for a few moments. When she came to, he was dragging her back to the table and restraining her. Rachel screamed and hit him, berating the Phoenix--_where the fuck are you?_--and her own stupidity for being so emotional. He managed to subdue her a final time, and then, he pressed a hand on her stomach.

Rachel stared at him through a haze of pain and nausea. He was strong, and if he tried, he could break something vital if he slammed his hand down. Good. That would hurt worse than anything. Then maybe the pain would make the voice in her head stop, the one that taunted her with _worthless, evil, bad_ like a mantra, over and over.

"Hysterical women were very common in my day, did you know that?" He cocked his head at her, appearing calm. His hair was pulled from his neat queue and he had fresh scratches on his face and neck, and she'd torn the sleeve from his shirt, but he looked completely unperturbed by any of it. "I think you may benefit from how doctors treated them. Since you are incapable of listening to reason." He smiled coldly, and his hand slid downward.

Rachel struggled, but before she understood what he was about, his fingers were pressing between her legs and he was starting to rub at her. "We used to think women who were as overset as you were suffering from a need for release. Which you very much are, are you not? Pain, yes, there is that..." His free hand pressed against her collarbone, where he'd hit her in their earlier struggle a moment ago.

Rachel moaned, pushing up against his hand, and the pain splashed behind her eyes like water.

"And power, which you are still afraid to use, even though I was hurting you physically and restraining you, taunting you about your past." He sighed. "You have so much power, so much potential. You must needs learn restraint, I believe, and then--would you not like to just _let go_ for once?"

His fingers were unrelenting, and her body hurt so very badly, but she was..moving, against his fingers, her eyes locked on his. He was still so cold, so seemingly uninvolved in what was happening to her. Rachel realized she was no longer struggling to get free, but for...

"Yes, see? This is what you want, is it not? Release?" His words were a purr, and with his free hand, he dug his fingers cruelly into the bruises around her wrist while he continued to stimulate her between her legs.

Rachel bit her lip, and her moan was not one of pain alone. She looked at him, wild-eyed. "Stop. Please."

"No," he said simply, and continued. "When you are finished we will have a rational conversation like adults. Until then, you will lie there and take this."

Rachel had suffered abuse at the hands of her captors; physically, mentally, and occasionally sexually. It had left her feeling sick and ashamed, and she had no idea why it wasn't the same with him. All she knew was the pain she was in from their fighting was making her vision narrow, and his fingers were rubbing faster and faster, and her hips were moving, and the pleasure was spiked with jagged edges and it didn't matter because--

Rachel cried out, arching up hard against his hand, a wave of white-hot pleasure drowning her as the pressure mounted and broke. She fell back against the table, panting, shivering in the aftermath. For a moment she felt blissfully free of anything--shame, anger, rage--and she simply lie there upon the steel, warmed now from her body, and floated in a delicious lassitude that she did not understand.

Somewhere inside, she felt the Phoenix stir.

_Why did you let him do that?_ She wondered drowsily, aware that Sinister had released her bonds and was carrying her somewhere.

_You sought from him what it was you needed. Your emotions have long been a crutch, and I would have it otherwise. I would have power where there is terror, strength where there is fear._

Rachel whimpered as she felt herself being lowered onto something, felt something warm draped over her. She turned her face into the soft thing--a blanket--and sighed. She'd worry about all of this later. Right now...she just wanted to _be_, just wanted to drift, and enjoy the quiet that her mind had finally become.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

She woke up, disoriented and confused, and pushed the blanket off her. She was in the morning room, and he was sitting across from her, staring at her and drinking what appeared to be tea. There was some on the table between them, as well as the bottle of aspirin and a few things that looked like sandwiches without crusts. She blinked at him. "You fixed tea?"  
Rachel winced at the sound of her own voice. Everything on her body hurt. "Why?"

"I'm British," he said, as if that should explain it.

She drew herself up into a sitting position and then wrapped the blanket back around her shoulders. "Why did you do that to me?" Her voice was curiously unemotional.

"Fix you tea? I thought perhaps you would wish something to eat, since you missed lunch." He sipped his tea, which should have looked strange, Mr. Sinister drinking Earl Grey. She used her powers to bring the other teacup to her, then took a sip of the warm liquid. It was nice and soothing. He made it well; probably due to years of practice.

"You didn't put anything in it, did you?" She should have thought of that first.

He shook his head. "No. I do not believe you need drugs to calm down, Rachel."

"You think you know what I need, now?" She laughed dully. "You didn't do anything they didn't do to me in the camps." She opened the bottle of aspirin, poured out four, then closed it, all with her telekinesis. Oddly, after all that pain and unwanted pleasure, her power seemed to be completely under control.

"I beg to differ," Sinister said. He too seemed...relaxed, somehow. He was almost sprawled in the chair across from her, which was unlike him. He'd fixed his hair, but his face still bore the marks from her nails. Still, there was an air of satisfaction about him that she wanted to hate but couldn't, really, since part of her shared it.

"Yeah? Why?" She brought one of the little sandwiches to her, which were actually very good. She nibbled on it and watched him from beneath her lashes, wondering why she hadn't yet tried to kill him for what he'd done to her.

"I am not certain, but I doubt the others who touched you brought you pleasure."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "It was still force."

"Of a sort," he said, shrugging negligently. "This is the kind you wanted, though."

Rachel stared at him. "You've lost your mind, right? I mean, you're really crazy."

"Did you enjoy that?"

"You just trying to piss me off by asking me that today?" Rachel grasped her coffee mug and glared hotly at him. "Did I enjoy fighting you, being beaten up, then sexually abused?"

"Yes, I suppose, though I take issue with the term _abuse_."

"No, psycho. I didn't like it." Then why did she look away? Rachel felt tears welling up inside of her. What was wrong with her that it felt like a lie?

"How do you feel right now? Be honest with me, please."

She forced herself to look at him. "Quiet. Aching. Good." She laughed, but not like she was amused. "I'm more fucked up than you."

"I do not know about that," Sinister muttered.

Rachel sipped her tea. She wondered if he'd liked what he'd done to her. She wondered why it mattered. Rachel ate another little sandwich. Neither of them paid the other much attention, but he was all she was aware of in the room. Finally, she set her teacup down and drew in a deep breath. "When they did that to me in the camps, I never...I never came." Her face was flushed, but her gaze was unflinching. "It never made me feel like this afterwards. Even when they hit me. I don't understand why it works this way with you. I don't like you."

"But you like what I just did to you. Maybe not during. But now...you like how you feel now, do you not?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Rachel muttered, curling up under the blanket once more. "I'm going to have a nap."

"You should sleep. Do you require anything for your bruises? I could mix up a poultice for your wounds, if you like."

He sounded very matter-of-fact about that. _A poultice for your wounds._ Rachel just wanted him to go away. She knew that when this strange fog lifted, she was going to be livid and confused and very, very angry with herself. She was determined to put that off as long as possible, because the guilt would come back and it was going to be _bad_.  
"No. I'm fine. I just want...just leave me alone." Resolutely, she closed her eyes.

Sinister's voice was soft when he spoke, but no less frightening. "As you wish," he murmured, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

** This chapter contains consensual violence. Please be advised before you read. Thanks to everyone for reading and enjoying the story!  
**

**Chapter 7**

_They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes._ Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Affair of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 7

Rachel lay in her bedroom, shivering beneath the covers, overwhelmed by guilt and shame over what she'd allowed that _monster_ to do to her in his laboratory a few days ago. How she'd responded. She would think she was all right for a while. Normal. She would read a book, or take a bath. And then she would remember how it had felt. And with the memory came the wanting. Practically needing. And then the guilt would hit her and she would hide in her room, fists clenched. Not going to him. There was no denying how much she'd liked it, no matter how hard she'd tried. How was she ever going to go home and face her teammates--_her family_--again? The pain and pleasure Sinister had forced her to endure had completely emptied her inner panic gauge, but she could literally feel it building back up again.

The truth of it was she was wound up tighter than a drum most of the time, and he'd been the only person to touch her since--

_No. I'm not thinking about that._

Except that it was getting hard to help herself. In her dreams he bent her over that table in his laboratory, and he whipped her with a belt before he made her come again. She'd woken up shuddering from that dream, her hand pressed between her legs, and it had taken the greatest effort in the world not to finish the fantasy and allow herself some relief. Part of her wondered if he was doing something to her; hypnotizing her, putting something in her food. The more rational part of her brain told her that was stupid, but she didn't like the rational part of her brain.

Dealing with said rational thought was, unfortunately, what she was doing right now; curled up in bed, breathing too fast, trying to make herself think rationally. Or trying to ignore said rational thought that said she had some sick fascination with him and his ability to hurt her until the world shut down. Fuck. Why was this happening to her? Could nothing ever be _easy_? Was it her goddamned destiny that she be completely and utterly incapable of living her life without some ridiculous complication like _aliens_ and _otherworldly beings_ and mad scientists with gleaming red eyes who had a way of delivering pain and pleasure that she was starting to crave like _breathing_...

Rachel groaned and flipped over, burying her face in the pillow. She tried screaming, like she used to do in the camps, but nothing was working. Now that she'd apparently found the thing that calmed her down, it seemed her body would accept nothing less. Before, she used to join her teammates in the Danger Room and work out her aggressions in battle simulations. It had always pleasantly exhausted her body and somewhat calmed her mind, but nothing like she'd been experiencing after Sinister hurt her. Did this mean that she wasn't ever going to be able to go home and do the things she'd always done to relieve all her stress? The thought was depressing.

Something pricked at her ears. Rachel lifted her head, listening carefully. Was she going crazy, or was she hearing...was that music?

She concentrated, listening. It _was_ music, and it sounded like a piano. Something about it was too rich, too full in tone, to be a recording. Rachel pushed the covers off of her and quietly padded out of her room, following the sound down the stairs and into the waiting darkness below. The music was coming from the library, and Rachel hovered outside of the door and used her powers to peek inside.

Sinister was seated at the piano, his shirtsleeves rolled up. There was no music in front of him; whatever he was playing, it was by memory.

"I know you are there, Rachel. You may come in, if you like."

Rachel pushed the door open and walked into the room, still disconcerted by the completely unexpected sight of Sinister playing the piano. "What...what is it?"

"A piano."

Rachel thought perhaps he was being obtuse on purpose, which was almost like a joke. She made her way to one of the chairs and curled up on it, listening, waiting him for to answer the question he had to know she'd really been asking.

"Chopin's _Nocturne in E Minor_," he answered, fingers moving effortlessly over the keyboard.

Rachel leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The music was both soothing and somehow sad, with a darkness spilling out just beneath the notes. Or perhaps that was just him, and the way he played it. The music alternately quieted and crescendoed, and Rachel found herself holding her breath and shivering just a little, as if the music were a caress. Or a warning. Or possibly both.

"Could you not sleep?" His voice seemed to her to be a fitting accompaniment to the music; edged with the same darkness, it was low and seemingly innocuous. Rachel knew better.

"No," she breathed, biting hard on her bottom lip. The music was almost hypnotic. She wondered idly what color his eyes would be, if she were to look.

"The usual," he answered. Rachel watched the way he played, how he moved with the music. "They are always the one color."

She felt restless and needy, and she wanted the song to stop, but she didn't. She shifted on the seat, uncomfortable. Her breathing seemed fast and she couldn't make herself calm down. Her throat was dry. What was _happening_ to her? "They're not. I've seen them change colors before."

"Is this what has been keeping you up, little one? My eye color?"

She blinked at the unexpected endearment. "Don't call me that. And no. That's not it." She found she was idly stroking her fingers over her collarbone, in time with the music. God. "I...it's..." she strangled on the words, unable to breathe, and then she leaned back and closed her eyes. Without thinking through the possible repercussions of her actions, she opened her mind to him and let him see what she was thinking. What she wanted. What she _needed_.

Was it her imagination, or did his fingers stumble across the keys? The music was intense, sharp, pounding relentlessly like rain battering a window during a storm. "Ah. I see."

Rachel whimpered, her head tossing against the back of the chair. "I just want to make it all stop. Like last time." She couldn't open her eyes, couldn't look at him. Some part of her felt like she'd given up, admitted defeat. Another part of her didn't feel that way at all.

"If you wish this of me, I would have you ask. So there is no misunderstanding between us."

Heat shot through her body at his words, and she pressed her legs together even though a frisson of fear raced up her spine and dripped down like ice into the pit of her stomach. The image of what she wanted danced feverishly in her brain. "I want you to...hurt me. Again. Like last time."

"Is that so?" The music played over her body like he was caressing her. It made her feel vaguely afraid and yet terribly aroused. She hated that he had such a skill in something that was beautiful. All he was supposed to be able to create was terror, not beauty. "And how I shall I do that, exactly?"

"My back," she breathed, thinking about her dream. "A belt. Whip me." She needed that, wanted to see red welts cutting across the hateful black lines of her deathmark.  
"Until I faint. Until it's quiet. Please." The last word was quiet as a prayer.

Gradually, Rachel became aware that the music had stopped. She opened her eyes slowly, then gave a little shriek as she realized he'd moved to stand directly in front of the chair, looming over her. She hadn't heard him move. His eyes were such a dark red they gleamed almost black in the paleness of his face. He wasn't blocking his thoughts as strongly as usual, and she felt something sadistic and cruel begin to twine around her like tendrils. Sinister was like ivy, the kind that climbed and climbed and killed whatever was in its path. Rachel wanted to be thing that he climbed, the thing that he choked and subdued and covered. Slowly, he held out his hand.

Rachel reached her hand out, and placed her own in his. He drew her to her feet, and she followed him, the silence echoing in her mind like the music had before it. She followed him down into the laboratory, down into the darkness.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

It was different, this time; she'd asked him for it, and she was willing.

She lay on the table, the metal cold against the flushed skin of her breasts. He had remained politely turned away as she'd stripped, and she'd placed her shirt in a neat pile on the chair next to the table. It was all very efficient and controlled, though Rachel was trembling slightly as he approached the table where she lay, bare from the waist up, quiet and quiescent and waiting for him to hurt her. His fingers brushed over her back. Rachel gave a soft shudder at his touch. Why were his hands so cold, and why was she pushing back against his fingers as if she liked how they felt?

"Shhh. Settle down. You are the most high-strung individual I have ever come across, and that is saying something, little one. You are rather exhausting to be around." His fingers traced the mark on her back. "This is lovely, though I assume you despise every inch of it."

Rachel gave a brief nod in agreement. The hard, unyielding metal was warming beneath her body. It was uncomfortable and yet she was glad that it was. _This is all you deserve_, her inner voice hissed. She closed her eyes tight against the hated sound.

"It will leave marks. Welts. You will not heal as easily as I would."

"I know," Rachel said quietly, shifting on the table. She wanted him to hurry, to start. She could almost _taste_ the pain of it. In her mind, the tempest raged. She wanted him to make it quiet. Her fingers curled into the edge of the table, sharp edges pressing against her palm.

"I would like to say to you that it is a pity to mar such lovely skin. Though I assume you know it would be a lie." He stepped back from her, and while his touch was chill rather than warm, she felt momentarily bereft at its loss. "Not that I do not find you lovely. I do. It is only that I find I have a certain...appreciation...for skin marred with welts."

Something struck her across the back. His belt, it had to be. Rachel arched up and nearly fell off the slick table, though it was mostly from surprise at how badly the first stroke hurt. "Oh, God..."

"Would you like me to restrain you?" His voice, still so chillingly polite.

"Yes," Rachel gasped out, and the leather straps attached themselves to her wrists and her ankles and now she could thrash and pull, and that was better. The belt hurt, more than she thought it would, but she didn't care. She just wanted him to keep doing it until she couldn't think anymore, until the guilt and the anger was were siphoned out of her.

"I'm curious, Rachel," he said conversationally, striking her and waiting for her sobs to subside before he spoke again, "If this is what you think you deserve."

She wasn't sure how to answer that; it was hard to form a coherent thought, much less speak. "Y-yes," she gasped quietly. She was internalizing most of what was happening to her, which was different than before. He was the catalyst to her cathartic release, and she was no longer focused on her anger at him as she'd been the other times they'd engaged in physical activity. Everything was directed inward, now.

"Interesting." He had a remarkable skill with the belt, able to strike her twice in a row in the same place. Rachel had been whipped by her captors before, and even they'd never managed that, as sadistic as they were. "Shall I stop? Your back is bleeding."

"No," Rachel choked out. Her back felt like it was on fire, but it wasn't enough. She needed it to be like it was last time, where it became so much she couldn't take it anymore.

"Very well." Sinister hit her again, and it was harder than before, and it felt like the skin of her back was being flayed. Maybe it was. Rachel arched up and screamed, her face bathed in sweat and tears.

"That's all you've got?" she sobbed at him, shaking hard and beginning to feel that rush of adrenaline as her body attempted to cope with the pain.

"No, as a matter fact. I am quite strong. I am also trying not to injure you so severely that you cannot walk." _Swoosh._ The leather struck her again, higher on her back, on her shoulders.

Nausea rolled through her and she fell back down on the table, face pressed against the metal. She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to hit her again on the shoulders--

He did, and the end of the belt snaked around and snapped high on her neck. Rachel made a small, whimpering sound of pain and felt her mind begin to slide away, into that chasm of of _nothing_ that awaited her. She relaxed into the table, sobbing quietly. The belt hurt but she didn't care anymore. This was no less than she deserved.

He was still hitting her, but lightly, now. It didn't matter. She could feel wetness on her back and knew it was blood. She was almost there, almost gone. All she needed was a little more...

The fall of the leather stopped for a moment, then he spoke. His voice was less detached, now. "One more, I think. Are you ready?"

Rachel gave an imperceptible and unnecessary nod. If he were in her head--and she could feel him there, just a little--he would know she was saying yes.

"This will hurt."

She thought that was unnecessary--of course it would--and then he hit her. Something was different about the sound as the lash fell, and her brain processed what he'd done as pain blossomed up her back and forced a low, pained moan from her throat. He'd hit her with the buckle. It was a hard throbbing pain where before it had been a lancet. Rachel went limp on the table as stars of white burst behind her closed eyes. She felt herself slip away, guided by the pain.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

Rachel woke up in the bath.

Sinister had stripped off her pajama pants, but left her panties in place. The water stung her back, but she sank lower into it, not bothering to cover herself from him. She couldn't tell if he was looking, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, really.

"My apologies for removing your clothing. You were bleeding quite profusely." His voice was very quiet.

Rachel blinked, unable to say much of anything. She wanted to wash her face, but she didn't want to splash it with the blood-tinged water in the tub.

The faucet turned itself on, and fresh hot water poured out. She leaned forward, wincing, and cupped some in her hands. She splashed her face and smoothed her wet hands through her hair, then turned off the faucet with her powers and leaned back against the tub. It took her a moment to realize she was in his bathroom, which might have bothered her if anything was capable of doing so at the moment.

"Do you require anything?"

She looked up at him, and while he was apparently looking right at her, she had the distinct feeling he was averting his gaze. She realized belatedly the feeling wasn't hers; he was actually telling her, telepathically, that he wasn't looking anywhere he shouldn't. She felt herself smile. "You have really weird manners," she said, her throat sore from screaming. "Beat a girl up, but don't look at her breasts."

His mouth twisted into something that was almost a smile. "The girl asked me to do so, so I obeyed. And of course I have manners. A product of my era, you realize. You have yet to answer my question."

Rachel stretched languidly. She took a deep breath and used her powers to find the aspirin, the glass on his basin, and fill it up with water. In several seconds she had all of the items hovering in front of her. Like last time, her telekinesis was remarkably well-controlled. She took four aspirin and drank the water thirstily. It tasted a bit tinny from the faucet but she didn't care. "No. Thank you."

"You are welcome." He cocked his head at her. "Do you feel better now?"

Drowsily, Rachel nodded, her eyes closed. "Yeah."

"I thought you might. When you are finished, I have something which will soothe the welts on your back. I added some to the water--it's only an antiseptic," he said quickly, as her eyes flew open and locked with his. "Though my offer for an aid to help you sleep still stands."

"You already gave it to me," Rachel answered honestly. She studied him, noticing he needed to shave and that he had dark stains on the shirt he was wearing. "Your shirt has blood on it," she pointed out.

He looked down. "So it does. I shall have to change. If you will excuse me," he said politely, turning to go.

"You can take your shirt off in front of me, you know. I'm sitting here half-naked in your bathtub."

"Mostly naked," he said, and then turned his head. She wondered if he were flustered by her body, or if he were trying not to look because he wanted to.

Rachel smiled slowly and slid her legs together in the warm water, arching her back slightly. "It's funny, you left on my panties," she said. Surely, somewhere in her head, there should be a voice shouting a warning at her. Stop this. Now. But all the voices in her head were quiet.

"I am glad it amused you."

She had no idea if he were serious. "You're a weird man."

He looked back at her. "I know. And you, Rachel Grey, are quite an interesting woman. Now that we have arrived at these conclusions, I do believe you should finish up and we should put something on your back. If you wish to refill the tub with clean water, by all means do so."

Rachel felt oddly frustrated, but she just shrugged. "It's okay. I'll use your shower, if you don't mind."

He inclined his head briefly. "Of course. Can you stand?"

She tried, but her legs were still weak and it made her dizzy. She swayed a little, but there was nothing really to reach out and grab as the tub wasn't near the wall. He was next to her in a second, holding out his arm. She put her hand on it and took a deep breath. The water sluiced down her body as she used her powers to turn on the shower. "I'm okay now."

She closed the curtain that was held by a metal ring above the tub. The clear, hot water stung but felt good, too. She stood under it, breathing deeply, and eventually switched off the water when it began to turn cool. Sinister was gone when she pushed the curtain aside. He'd left a towel out for her, and she stood on the rug and dried herself off after stripping off her wet panties. She had no idea what to do with them, so she dropped them on the floor with her pajama pants. Hesitantly, she turned to see her back in the mirror.

"Oh, God." Rachel sucked in a breath as she saw her deathmark, crossed with reddened, angry welts, smeared with blood. She swallowed over a lump in her throat and gingerly wrapped the towel around herself. The cotton bothered the lashes on her back, so she tried to hold it as loosely as possible. His floor was soaked with water, but she used her telekinesis to clean it up. It was amazing, really, what good control she had over it after she managed to clear her mind.

He was waiting for her in the bedroom, a towel on the bed. He gestured for her to lay down. Rachel looked at him. "I'm not...I'm naked under the towel."

"If you wish to get something from your room, I shall wait." He was the very soul of politeness, standing next to the bed in his blood-covered shirt.

"It doesn't bother me." Rachel wasn't very modest, and strangely, it didn't bother her in the slightest if he saw her naked. That must be some side-effect of her rather calm mental state. Maybe it was just shock. "I thought it would bother you."

"No. Lay down."

Something about his autocratic command made her catch her breath. She looked at him and dropped the towel. The air grew thick between them, and this time, she knew he was looking at her body. She crawled slowly onto the bed, lying once more on her stomach.

He didn't say anything, merely spread a cream on her back. It was cold, and stung a little, but the discomfort faded quickly into relief. Rachel sighed and rested her head on her arms. "That feels good."

She heard his quick, indrawn breath. "Does it?" His touch was light as he spread the cream on her welts. "Sometimes this can hurt worse."

"How do you know?"

He didn't answer, but she saw a flash of him, bound and naked from the waist up, some minion of Apocalypse whipping him while his Master watched. Sinister didn't scream, but she knew it hurt by the way his body bowed and his muscles tensed, straining against his bonds. He could have broken free with his strength, of course, but that would have been the very worst thing to do. Afterwards, they put--Rachel winced as she saw that particular memory.

"God, salt? I thought that was only an expression," Rachel murmured, somewhat sickened.

"Yes, well. Apocalypse was rather gifted at torment. I believe someone was foolish enough to utter the phrase _like salt in a wound_ in his presence, and he wished to see if that were indeed true." Sinister's mouth twisted unpleasantly. "Not on himself, of course."

"Do you regret what you did? Making your deal with him, so you could live forever?"

"Some days I do."

The answer surprised her. She turned her head and looked up at him. "I thought you didn't feel emotions."

He arched one dark brow at her. "Then why did you ask me?"

She changed the subject. "Did you like hurting me?"

His fingers stilled on her back. "Yes."

That made warmth curl low in her stomach, which meant she was probably insane. "Because you hate me?"

"Why would I hate you?" He looked confused. "Of course that is not why. Did you enjoy my hurting you?"

She nodded.

"Is it because you hate me?"

"I don't hate you," she said, realizing it was true.

He smiled, and she scowled, but there was no real heat behind the expression. "That doesn't mean I particularly like you, Essex."

"Point taken." He finished with the cream and began bandaging her back.

Rachel was feeling warm, drowsy, and something else. "Why do you think I want that? All that pain, I mean."

"So that you can calm down," he answered, finishing with the bandages. "And you know why you want it. There. Lie there for a moment, if you would. If you try to stand too soon, the bandages may not stay affixed to your wounds." He stepped away from her, walking over to his armoire.

Rachel watched as he stripped off his shirt. He turned back and saw her watching. That tension she'd noticed grew heavier between them. Rachel licked her lips slowly.

A wave of lust hit her straight in the stomach. Sinister actually stumbled backwards for a moment, then turned away from her. She saw his hands clench into fists at his sides, and she thought about how he'd touched her, how he'd made her come. "You liked hurting me. Did you like..." she couldn't make herself ask, afraid of what his answer might be.

Sinister kept his back to her. "You should be able to sleep now. I shall sleep downstairs." He grabbed a shirt and headed out of the room. Rachel wanted him to come back, but she knew that she shouldn't. Then again, did it really matter now? After what he'd done, after what she had asked him to do?

For some reason, she kept waiting for him to come back into the room, but he never did. Somewhere in the middle of waiting, in playing out the sublime and decadent fantasies in her head, she fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Only two more chapters to go after this one! Thanks everyone for reading! **

**Chapter 8**

_"Ah, it's an ill conscience that's such an enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there's blood foully shed in every step of it!"_--Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 8.

"Why did the Phoenix want me? For the host? Do you have any idea?"

Sinister looked up from his notes, across from where Rachel sat on her usual perch in his laboratory; the metal table. "I assume initially it was because you are a descendant of the original host."

"Initially?" Rachel kicked her heels against the metal table. Her back was healing but it was still a little sore. He'd whipped her hard enough with the belt buckle that it had bruised the muscle beneath, and the occasional twinge was relaxing. "What do you mean by that?"

"You are extraordinarily powerful, Rachel. I would assume that the being was pleased by your other attributes."

Rachel was startled at that. "Yeah? Like what?"

He smiled. "Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"Sinister, I am here so you can _study me_, remember? I just want to know," she said defensively, raking a hand through her hair. _And so maybe I don't feel so worthless when I compare myself to my mother._

"The Phoenix, as I have figured it, is attracted to you for your genetic link to your mother, certainly. And your potential, I would imagine."

"My...potential? Isn't that the same as my powers?"

Sinister shook his head and rose from where he was seated. "No. You have an incredible amount of untapped power that, quite frankly, you are not using. On the one hand, you are afraid of your own abilities, and on the other, they are often uncontrollable and do not behave as you would wish." At her glare, he gave a Gallic shrug. "You did ask."

"So the Phoenix likes me because I'm unstable?"

"Where there is instability, there is the potential for stability," Sinister responded. "And you have quite the survival instinct, as we've discussed. You are willing to do what must be done to ensure your own survival. I assume the Phoenix finds this an attractive quality for its host."

Something about that sounded like an insult. "So I'm selfish, a little wacky, and powerful. Wow. Gee, I can sure see why I'm such a perfect package."

"No. You do not see that at all." He laughed. "You think the Phoenix amplifies your powers, gives you control. Therefore you give it more attention, allow it to surface more, feed it energy. It is a symbiotic relationship. That means--"

"I took biology, thanks," Rachel interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest. "And my mother knew how to hold it at bay. So if I could learn how to control my powers, then I could keep the Phoenix from consuming me. Or whatever it wants."

"Theoretically, yes."

Rachel thought about that. "I...after we...after you hurt me. I tend to be able to use it better, with more control. My TK, at least."

Sinister nodded. "Yes, I have noticed that. And your telepathy, have you noticed it was stronger as well?"

She thought about that, about how she was able to pick up things from him. "I don't know. You block your thoughts from me a lot, so I don't know if when I catch something, it's something you wanted me to catch and that's the only reason you're letting me see it at all."

Infuriatingly, he didn't clarify that. "Then what is the conclusion you have drawn?"

"Well, Professor Essex, I'd say that if I can control myself, then my powers don't go all wonky. Sound about right?"

"I am unsure as to the exact meaning of _wonky_, but I shall use the context clues and say, yes, I believe that sounds correct. Your powers are unstable because you do not trust yourself. You do not trust yourself, because you think you are worthless, are filled with anger, and therefore can hardly concentrate on anything besides your own inner turmoil." He was standing directly in front of her now. "Does _that_ sound about right?"

"Yeah." Rachel gave him an unfriendly look. "So what do I do about it? Slam my hand in a door every time I need to use my powers?"

"That would not work. Your masochistic tendencies notwithstanding, you have a psychological need for punishment. Therefore, you only seem to find that center of calm when such punishment is administered by an outside source, to the extent which you feel you are suitably chastised."

"What, so you're a mad psychologist now, too?" she groused, looking away from him, feeling ashamed at how closely his little spiel mirrored what she was feeling.

"Are you honestly going to tell me that I am wrong, Rachel?"

Rachel looked back at him and slowly shook her head. "No. I guess I'm not. Are we done?" She could feel the familiar worthlessness swirl in the pit of her stomach. _See, you're a freak and you'll never be good enough--_

Sinister grabbed her hair, hard, and pulled. "Stop that. I am trying to have a discussion with you and I do not have time for this mantra of self-pity by which you are so easily distracted." He slapped the side of her face.

Rachel's head snapped back, then she used her powers to force him back and away from her, flipping the metal table over and pinning him back against the wall while she leaped gracefully to the side.

Sinister clapped appreciatively. "Case in point." He returned the table to its proper position and re-arranged the items she'd dislodged when she'd moved it. Rachel stayed where she was, hating him that he'd been right. A few weeks ago, that little maneuver may or may not have worked. Now, she hadn't even thought about whether it would or not.

"So what do I do about it? Hire someone to whip me when I come home at night?" Rachel laughed bitterly. "That'll go over well."

"I am not certain. You shall either have to find someone capable of hurting you as you require, or research alternate methods of exorcising all that anger and pent-up guilt until it no longer troubles you."

Rachel really couldn't figure out what those methods might be, but that's what the Internet was for, right? "And then what?" Rachel looked at him warily. "Then the Phoenix decides I'm ripe to be some destroyer of worlds?"

"Then perhaps you will learn to use the Phoenix force, instead of being used _by_ it. You cannot control it if you cannot control yourself."

Rachel felt something stir in her, that burning-hot essence. "I think...maybe..." she swayed on her feet, nearly pitching forward. She felt herself levitating off of the floor, toes brushing the ground. Her eyes started to burn, and the world drowned in white.

"Your time grows shorter, Essex," the being said in its clarion voice, loud and resonant in the small confines of the laboratory.

"Yes, I am aware of that," Sinister responded carefully.

"You would teach her control of me, but I would have control of her."

"I am sure you would," Sinister murmured. "Rachel, can you hear me?"

Deep within the well of power where she waited, momentarily trumped by the _other_ within, Rachel stirred. She could hear him fine, she just couldn't respond.

The Phoenix laughed. "It matters not what my host wishes for, Essex. If it is not my desire, she will not have it."

"I see. Fascinating. And what is it you want from her?"

Somewhere in the background of her mind, where Rachel was trapped, she noted that Essex was _taking notes_. It figured.

"A host. A place in which to dwell. You know these things, they are not revelations to you. Have you worked out the riddle from when we last spoke?"

"There was a riddle?"

If Rachel didn't know Sinister to be rather humorless, she would have thought that maybe he was joking. The Phoenix was displeased, and the entire laboratory seemed to glow with unearthly light. "Do not speak lightly to me, Essex. Your powers are infinitesimal compared to mine."

"I am quite aware of that, I assure you. Though I speak truthfully--I did not know there was a riddle I was to work out."

"You lie to yourself remarkably well. I shall leave you to ponder these mysteries, but be warned, you will not emerge unscathed from what you have wrought, here."

"You speak of the gift of Apocalypse that Rachel shall lay waste? Am I to assume she is to kill me?"

Rachel felt herself pushing forth as the Phoenix began to fade. "No. That is not the death of which I speak. You shall know it, when it comes to pass, and his legacy is broken." The Phoenix faded and Rachel slumped forward, catching herself on the table he'd righted. She looked at him warily. "I don't know what it means. Before you ask."

"I did not think that you did," he said simply, then turned. "Perhaps you should go amuse yourself. I have work to do."

Rachel didn't know why his abrupt dismissal stung, but it did. She paused for a moment on her way out, stopping with her hand on the door. "I won't kill you. It's not my way." And she didn't want him dead, though God only knew why she didn't. With that, she went back upstairs and headed to the library. It was time to find another book to read.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

He was quiet during dinner, and while that wasn't unusual--he was hardly loquacious--there was something a bit...off...about him.

Rachel toyed with her food and wondered if she should ask him what was wrong. She didn't want to pry, really, but his behavior was making her nervous. A few times already she'd looked up and he'd been perfectly still, staring at her. Finally she'd demanded what it was he wanted. He'd blinked in surprise and told her he hadn't been looking at her at all. Rachel had muttered something about how annoying his pupil-less eyes were and gone back to her dinner.

She was a bit disturbed herself. What had the Phoenix meant about Apocalypse's legacy to Sinister? Rachel realized that her time here was running out--she had little less than a week left, if she was counting it right--and if something was going to go down, she wanted to know about it. "Do you--I mean, have you found out anything I should know? Like do I have some kind of genetic disease or something?"

"No. You are perfectly healthy."

Okay. So that conversation topic wasn't going to work. "Are you saving up some really awful genetic test for the last day or something?"

"No."

Rachel took a drink of her water and tried not to glare at him. Why did she really want to make small talk with him anyway? There was just something about his silence that was vaguely disapproving, and it was driving her mad. "Did I piss you off or something?"

"Not especially."

She waited for him to say something else, but he went back to staring at...whatever it was he was staring at. His mental shields were locked tight. Rachel threw her hands in the air. "Do you know how to have a conversation?"

"Was there something you wished to discuss?"

Frustrated, she glared across the table at him. "Sometimes you seem like a person. You know, the kind that has conversations with people at dinner, the kind who doesn't stare off into space and ignore the other person who's with him completely. It's like eating with a statue."

"I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you." His food was mostly untouched on his plate. Rachel wondered what kind of things bothered a man like Sinister enough to make him lose his appetite.

"Damn it, Nathaniel," Rachel snapped, slamming her palm on the desk. "I'll be out of your hair soon enough. Can we not just pretend to be normal for thirty minutes and talk about something that isn't my bloodline or your being evil?"

"What did you call me?"

Startled by his icy tone, she stared at him. "What, Nathaniel? It's your name, isn't it?"

"It was, yes." His eyes narrowed. "I haven't used it as anything other than an alias for years."

"Well, it's still your _name_. I mean, I go by Rachel Grey now, though Summers is really my last name. So if someone called me that, I wouldn't get all creepy." She forked up a bite of her dinner, glad they were at least talking, even though he seemed rather angry.

"Do you wish for me to hit you again? If so, you do not have to make me angry. You only have to ask."

"I don't want you to hit me again," Rachel said slowly, thinking maybe it would have been better if they'd just stayed quiet.

"What is it you want, then?"

"What is it _you_ want?" Rachel pointed her knife at him. "Really. Seriously. There has to be something."

"Apocalypse saw to it that I have no emotions, remember?"

"That's ridiculous," she snapped. "You do. You've been angry, annoyed, and even amused once or twice since I've been here." And something else that also started with _a_, but she didn't really want to say that.

"I suggest you take it up with him, then. I missed the finer points of his emotional alterations. I was quite distracted by the searing pain." He took a drink, watching her over the rim of his glass.

"What did you look like? Before he...changed you." She wasn't sure where this was coming from, or why she was so determined to know about the man he had been before he became Sinister. "Could you show me?"

"Why do you want to see? I am not that man anymore, and it would do you well to remember that."

Something about his words made her flush. "I have done everything you asked me to do since I got here."

"That is what we agreed," he reminded her. "I have also upheld my end of our bargain. We owe each other nothing further."

"Fine," Rachel sighed, tired. "I'll put you neatly back into the box of villainous, soulless monster, since that is where you seem to determined to stay."

"It is only that this is what I am. There is no point in dwelling on what I once was."

She was surprised he'd answered. "You know, people have told me to stop living in the past. That I could get over all my anger if I'd just let it go. But it doesn't work that way. I can't escape what happened to me, and part of me will always carry it around with me. No matter what happens, even if the Phoenix burns what is left of me out or if I find a way of getting control over my emotions and my powers. What happens in the past shapes us and we carry it with us." She took a deep breath, realizing it was sounding very much like she were delivering a monologue. "You're Sinister, yeah, I get that. But you're Essex, too. And even if you hated who you were when you were Essex, it doesn't make it not true." She looked down at her plate.

"I did not hate myself," he said, and she looked up at him. His head was turned, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Suddenly, the image shifted and the man sitting across from her was no longer Sinister, but...Nathaniel Essex.

He looked much the same, though without the pale skin and the glowing eyes, and his forehead was unmarred. The clothing he'd put himself in to show her this projection was anachronistic--it was obviously Victorian dress--but the planes of his face were the same. "To the best of my recollection, this is what I looked like the last time I saw myself, before Apocalypse's machine altered my appearance." He met her gaze calmly.

Rachel stared at him, fascinated despite herself. "Your eyes. They're not green. They're blue. Really dark blue. Almost black." It was weird to see him with pupils. His eyes were beautiful. She wondered idly why she thought they looked better red. That couldn't mean anything good.

"I suppose they are. Are you satisfied now?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Wow. How long did it take you to figure out you could do that?"

"Several years. It comes in handy for disguising my identity if necessary, since I have distinctive features." He smiled at her. It looked no less warm just because she could see his eyes. The image was beginning to freak her out a bit. It was him, but it wasn't. Sinister swam just beneath, a shadow in his eyes. The same sardonic smile curved his mouth. "Disconcerting, yes?"

"Yeah." Something about his appearance was making her distinctly uncomfortable, and she realized it was because _he_ was uncomfortable and was projecting his emotions. She was beginning to wonder if maybe he was completely clueless to the fact that he still _had_ emotions. Apocalypse could tell him whatever, but Rachel knew emotions when she felt them. "If I ask you something, would you tell me the truth?"

"It would depend on the question."

At least he admitted it. "Do you hate what Essex looks like? I mean, you could look like this all the time. You don't, though. You prefer to look like...Sinister. Why?"

"Because it is who I am. This is only a projection, a psychically altered image. What point would I have to change my appearance? Though I imagine is it more pleasing to behold, it is not who I am."

That made sense to her, and she reached up and touched her fingers to her hound markings. "But you hate the man that did it to you."

"Oh, yes. But Rachel, you see, I triumphed in the end. I was the stronger of the two of us. Just as you were the stronger, in comparison to those who put that mark on your face." His features began to blur, transforming back into Sinister's pale visage. "I could force myself and others to see me as I was, but it would be a lie."

"But you don't care what people think," she reminded him.

"No. But if I am content with what he made me, then I rob him of his victory. Were I to revert back to the man I was before he changed me, then I admit that what he did to me is displeasing."

That made sense, sort of. "You're a lot more complicated than anyone thinks," she said bluntly.

"People are rarely one-dimensional. Even me."

Rachel nodded. "Thank you for showing me that."

"You are welcome. Are you finished?"

She nodded, and he used his telekinesis to clear the table. She went into the kitchen and did the dishes by hand, mainly because she needed to think and it gave her a few moments to do so. He brought in his glass, and set in the sink. "You do not have to do that."

"I know. I don't mind." Rachel found her heart was racing. He was standing very close to her; she could feel the press of his body behind hers, the heat of him, though they weren't touching. Heat coiled low in her stomach as she inhaled his scent and heard the vibration of his voice so close against her neck.

"As you wish," he said nonchalantly, turning to leave.

"If I drop my shields around you, would you do the same? If I let my guard down and let you see into my head, I mean. Would you return the favor?" She scrubbed hard at one of the dishes, though it was in no way dirty enough to necessitate such a thing.

"Why?"

"I don't know," she admitted, rinsing the plate. "Never mind."

"I am shielding my thoughts out of practice, not because I am trying to hide anything. Though if you try something--"

"Hello, I would've done it by now," Rachel pointed out, rinsing his glass from earlier. It had the remnants of something alcoholic in it. And here she'd thought it was just water. "Hey, where're you hiding the wine?"

"It is port. There is some in the sideboard in the dining room. Help yourself if you would like some." He was leaning against the doorway, in a pose that looked more casual and relaxed than she gathered he was feeling. "I have some gin somewhere, too, though I've not had any since...possibly the early nineteen hundreds? It may not be any good."

"That's okay. I got drunk once on gin. I hate the stuff." She finished drying the dishes, and he left her alone in the kitchen. She wondered why she should care that he seemed so ambivalent to her, and decided to have a glass of port and read her book and forget about it. She took her glass of wine and her book and went to the morning room. After a few sips she deduced she didn't like it all.

_This stuff is awful. How do you drink it?_ she thought, tentatively sending her thoughts to him.

_In the normal fashion._

_Haha! Sinister, you're so very funny._

_I am only answering your question. If you dislike it, get rid of it or I shall finish it. It makes no difference to me._

Rachel went to the study, where Sinister was reading a book at his desk. "Here. It's awful. Totally supervillain appropriate." She set it in front of him, then looked down at the book he was reading. It was something very new, a science book about the human genome. "Though reading that and drinking might put you to sleep."

"I highly doubt it." He looked up from the book and studied her curiously. "You may read in here, if you wish. The fire keeps this room more insulated than the others and it is not as cold. Just do not chatter at me."

"I don't chatter," Rachel said, irritated, but she sat down on the admittedly more comfortable chair and used her telepathy to bring her book to her. They read in companionable silence, though to her surprise, he muttered things at the book while he was reading. She had no idea what he was talking about, but it was still sort of funny.

Rachel actually fell asleep while sitting there. It bothered her a little that she felt comfortable enough in his presence to do so. She dozed off, and was having a nice dream involving shopping and possibly chocolate. It might have stayed that way, except that something about the way the fire threw shadows on the wall pulled a memory of the camps from her subconscious.

The dream rapidly tumbled into a nightmare, and she was being led on her hands and knees to a warehouse. They made her carry a canister of gasoline and when they found the family hidden inside, they made her pour it over terrified, frightened mutants. Then they handed her a match. _Light'em up, hound, and watch them burn. Do the kids first so the parents can see._

She woke up bathed in sweat, gasping, a blanket tangled around her. "No. God." Without thinking, she used her powers and doused the fire. The tangle of the blanket reminded her of her hated leash and she threw it off, leaping to her feet.

"Calm down, now. You just had a nightmare." Sinister was suddenly behind her, though she had no idea where he'd come from.

"I fucking hate this," Rachel whispered, her voice sounding strangled. "I was just dreaming. It was fine. Why can't it just be fine?"

He was the last person to offer her any sort of comfort, and part of her was relieved that he didn't try. She was startled, however, to feel his hands rest on her shoulders. He had cold hands but she felt the burn of his touch all the way through her shirt. She looked over her shoulder at him as he squeezed his hands, and she gave a little start when she realized what he was doing. He was rubbing her shoulders. Her entire body stiffened. "You don't--I mean, I'm not all worked up."

"You are so tense, it is a wonder you can relax at all." His massage was more painful than anything, as he was pushing very hard against the knotted muscles of her shoulders. She had no idea what had motivated this unexpected gesture on his behalf.

"You aren't really relaxed either," she tossed back, but without much heat. She leaned back, just a little, a sign she was clearly enjoying his touch. She probably didn't want to know what it was that was making him tense.

"No, Rachel, you probably do not," he responded immediately to her unspoken thought. The rhythmic press of his fingers continued, and she could hear him breathing behind her, and his thumbs pressed into the knots on the nape of her neck. She winced at the pain of it and breathed through it, concentrating on how good it would feel when he stopped.

She looked back over her shoulder at him and sucked in a breath at the look on his face, and the slight trickle of awareness she could feel growing between them. "I don't need you to hurt me." She was trembling a little from his proximity and the sensation of his hands on her, and the knowledge of how very much she wanted him to touch her.

"I know. However, would you like me to anyway?" His breath stirred the hairs on the nape of her neck; shuddering tingles of pleasure raced down on her spine at the feel of it.

Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She gave a little shiver and said carefully, "Kind of. I mean." She felt confused. He was too close to her. The air was heavy between them, and she caught him off guard and shoved her mind at his, frustrated by her inability to know what it was _he_ wanted while he continued to badger her about it all the time.

He hissed and his hands tightened on her shoulders. For a moment she thought he was going to push her away, but he didn't. The air was pregnant with tension, close to the breaking point. He pulled her back against him and simultaneously moved forward, towards his desk. "Do not go looking for things unless you are certain you want to see them." His hands slid down over her arms and curled around hers, and then he pulled her arms away from her body and slammed her hands on the desk in front of her, palms-down.

Rachel was finding it hard to catch her breath. Her body felt like it was buzzing. He was dangerously intent upon her, which was both thrilling and terrifying. She looked over her shoulder at him. "Make me forget my nightmare." Her voice was caught between pleading and aroused.

Sinister was staring at her like he was going to consume her. "Ask me nicely." His hands were on her hips, and she pushed herself back towards him. He stilled her, fingers biting cruelly into her skin.

"Nathaniel, please," she gasped, dropping her head. This wrong, and she shouldn't want it, but she didn't care. The tension was at a breaking point and she needed release, and she needed him to give it to her. "Please."

He yanked her back up against him with a hand in her hair, and she cried out at the sudden violence and the unfamiliar sensation of being completely pressed against him. She could feel his breath, hot on her neck, as he undid the buttons of her jeans with his hand. Last time he had done this through her clothing; this time, he slid his hand inside her panties and pressed his fingers against her bare flesh.

She could tell from his unguarded thoughts that he liked this; liked restraining her, liked how hot her skin felt against his fingers. She didn't even realize she was tossing her head and whimpering until she saw in his mind how much he liked that, too. The room was quiet, broken only by the sound of their harsh breathing, and his fingers were cold but felt so good against her, and she was wet and she could feel him behind her, and Rachel could barely _stand_ her knees were weakened by pleasure and fear and want--

His free hand slid up and roughly grabbed her breasts. "Would you like to come?"

Somehow, knowing he was almost dangerously aroused and yet hearing his voice, so calm and cool, was making her all the more frantic. "Yes. God. Please." She was pushing against his fingers, and she didn't care anymore who he was or who _she_ was, or why this was wrong. All she cared about right now was the pleasure that hovered just outside of her reach, and she needed...

He bit her neck, which she didn't expect, and the pain coupled with the pleasure of his hand between her legs sent her careening over the edge. She threw her head back and moaned, loudly, and the windowpanes rattled as her body writhed and arched. All the while, he kept her restrained and pressed against him, and when it was over she was glad for it as she barely had the strength to remain standing. They were both breathing hard. Rachel looked at him and noticed that, despite the fact she hadn't thought it possible, his face was a bit flushed.

Slowly he removed his hand from between her legs. Her neck hurt where he'd bitten her. Rachel re-fastened her jeans and moved away from him. "I--" She didn't know what to say. Her eyes were very wide. She wondered what was going to happen next. Her eyes touched on the desk, thought about how she'd braced her palms on it before, and what he could do to her if she were to take that position again.

He did the last thing she expected.

He left. He didn't leave the room, he just...vanished. Teleported somewhere, away from her.

Rachel was left standing in the library, confused and still aroused, wondering why even a madman didn't want her.


	9. Chapter 9

**I have a brief author's note here, about Faye Livingstone, the woman to whom Rachel refers in this chapter. It was reading about Sinister and his involvement with Faye that made me suddenly interested in the character beyond the cartoonish villain he is depicted as being. In the 1930's, Essex met her in California and fell in love with her. He never told her his feelings for her, and in fact, denied ever having them. Faye, who knew what sort of man he was after Essex forced her to see the truth about him, nevertheless was heartbroken when he made her leave him, and consequently never married. Canon tells us that she died alone in a nursing home, and yet, every year, was visited by a "Mr. Essex." Faye Livingstone died in his arms, after the two shared a telepathic dance together.**

**I admit it. I read that, and was hooked, though the story involves kidnapping and a variety of other unsavory things. But hey, that's sort of my MO! I hope you enjoy the chapter, and thank you for reading!**

**Chapter 9**

_Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me--something seizing, surprising and revolting-- this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man's nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world._--Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 9.

Rachel felt a flash of anger, and then she decided that she wasn't going to let him get away with callously dismissing her like that. She found his location telepathically with a quick scan, and stormed up the stairs to his bedroom. She didn't bother knocking. He was standing at the window, looking out at the darkened city below, and he didn't even turn around when she entered. "Get out."

"No," Rachel said, crossing her arms. "Why should I? You have never left my family alone when we've tried to make you stop kidnapping us for breeding stock."

"I do not want you for breeding stock," Sinister snapped. She was pleased to hear the fine-edge of anger in his voice.

"No? Then what _do_ you want me for? Because you do want me, and you can't pretend you don't."

"Can I not? Would you like to watch me?"

Rachel actually stomped her foot. "What _is_ your problem? It's not like I want to be attracted to you. It's not like I want you to be the only person I've ever met who can make my brain shut up for more than three minutes. Do you think I came here intending for any of this to happen? I just wanted to protect my family, my friends, from you. And now..." she gave a harsh laugh. "I just betrayed everything I ever held dear. For what? So you could get me off? Because it wasn't about _calming me down_ at all, it was about the fact I wanted your hands on me and you wanted to put them there."

He turned to her, face impassive, but the energy swirling around him was anything but. "Yes, well, I assure you none of this happened on purpose." He raked a hand through his hair so hard, Rachel nearly winced in sympathy. Then she remembered that she still sort of hated him, was a little afraid of him, and wanted him to take her to bed very, very badly. Sympathy for the devil was not in the program at the moment.

"I don't even really _like_ you," Rachel pointed out, as if she sort of had to. "I mean, you're _evil_."

"You are obnoxiously ill-mannered, entirely too over-dramatic, and you are impulsive to the point of idiocy." He took a step closer. Rachel did as well, refusing to back up, refusing to allow him to subdue her or chase her away.

"Yeah? You're hardly a prize, either, Essex," she muttered, hands on her hips. "You have no idea about how your actions affect others, you're a sociopath and you don't care about anyone, not even really yourself, and your house is too cold and your furniture sucks."

"I do hope you are not trying to hurt my feelings." He smirked at her. "Because _I do not have any._"

"Yeah, about that? You're _wrong_." Rachel laughed tauntingly. "You do feel things, you just like to pretend you don't. You think I'm annoying because I _annoy you._ You also touched me earlier because you want me. Go ahead and lie and tell me it's not true."

"I am not dead," Sinister growled. "Emotions and physical needs are quite different."

"Right," Rachel drawled. "You have no emotions, but you have needs. Sure. So that's why, when you had to have known that I'd have let you bend me over that desk and fuck me six ways to Sunday, that's why you teleported out of there faster than I could blink."

"There is a flaw in your argument," Sinister informed her archly.

Rachel waited with her arms crossed. "What is it?"

"Perhaps I took my pleasure of you already and erased your mind."

That was the absolute, most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. Rachel clapped a hand to her mouth to cover her sudden, wild giggling. It didn't work. "Do...you...really...mean...that?"

"No, but I am trying to find something that will convince you to go away, and it seemed possibly as if it may work." He looked disgruntled. It just made Rachel laugh harder. He surprised her by crossing to her and grabbing her arm in a painful, vise-like grip. "What is it that you want, Rachel? Do you want me to take you to bed?"

She stopped laughing, her entire body suffused with heat. She stared him straight in his eyes and nodded. It was pretty stupid to lie about it. "Yes. That's what I want."

"Despite the fact you know full well what sort of man I am?"

She nodded again.

"So that you may hate yourself even more than you already do, in the morning?"

That was so out of the realm of her thoughts that she wasn't sure, for a moment, what to say. "What? No."

His fingers were still digging cruelly into her arm. "Right. I am to believe that, when all you want are reasons so that you may be punished. What better thing to prove your lack of self-worth than sleeping with someone with no redeeming values whatsoever?" His mouth twisted. "Am I all you think you deserve?"

Rachel was shocked. She stared at him with her mouth open. "Would it matter, to you? If all of that were true? If you wanted me--" and he did, he wasn't shielding his thoughts from her and she could almost _taste_ his hunger for her, his desire to hurt her and make her cry out in pleasure and pain--"And you were really this emotionless _monster_ you keep saying you are, then why the hell would you care?"

His eyes glowed nearly black, but he didn't answer.

Rachel pressed onward. "You wouldn't care. You'd be behind me right now and you'd be doing everything to me that I can see in your mind you want to do. But you're not, so what am I supposed to think, Nathaniel?"

"Stop calling me that," he hissed. Things began rattling in the room; the lamp on his bedside table, the silver round mirror on the wall.

"It's your name," Rachel said quietly, refusing to allow him to scare her.

"You know nothing about me. Oh, you may know what you have heard of me, or what you have seen, but you know only a fraction of what kind of man I am, Rachel. Not just Sinister, but Essex. Do you know why I have chosen to call myself the name that I have?" He dragged her over to the bed and threw her down on it, but Rachel didn't think he was going to join her there.

"No," she answered honestly, staring up at him.

"My wife, Rebecca, was pregnant. It was our second child. Our first had died of a genetic disease, and I was determined that the second not share his fate. So I tried, as a scientist, to find out what had killed him. I needed to know. Do you know what I--Nathaniel Essex, this name you keep insisting upon using--do you know what I did?" He was breathing very fast, his hands clenched at his sides.

Rachel shook her head slowly in answer.

"I removed the body of my dead son from his grave, and experimented upon his corpse." He didn't flinch as he said it.

Rachel winced, and he noticed. "Yes, terrible, is it not? I also hired men to kidnap people from the streets of London so that I could continue my work. This was all before I met Apocalypse, you understand. My willingness to do such terrible things on behalf of furthering my research is _why he wanted me_ in the first place. When Rebecca learned of all the horrors which I had wrought--when she saw our dead son's decomposing body on the table in my laboratory--she had a heart attack. I killed her and our unborn child. She said one word to me, and then she died in my arms."

"Sinister," Rachel whispered. "That's the word she said to you." The rest of the story slid into place as she saw the memories he was no longer trying to hide. "You kept it so that you wouldn't forget." She shook her head as if trying to clear it. "You did it all to save your unborn child, and you killed everyone you loved in the process. That's..." she trailed off, because Rachel wasn't sure there was an adjective for that.

"Sinister?"

She smiled humorlessly. "Yeah. That."

"My point in telling you this story is that I was never a good man. Not when I was Nathaniel Essex, and certainly not now." With that, he thrust a barrage of images at her, and Rachel fell back against the bed under the onslaught as she was forced to endure the memories of the past hundred and forty-six years of his life. And they were all horrible, just as she knew they would be. She saw too many things, all orchestrated by _him_, including everything he'd done to her family. To Gambit. To her father. To Maddie. To Cable. To children whose names he did not know and did not care to know. There was almost too much to process, but she didn't pull away. She lay back and let him give her what he would, until he finally wrenched his mind from hers and stumbled backwards.

When it was over, the only sound was the ticking of the clock in the room as Rachel struggled to pull herself together. She eventually sat up and looked over at him, where he was standing.

He was staring at her coldly. "Now look at me and tell me you want to go to bed with me. Want me to touch you. And not just because you want a reason to hate yourself in the morning. You see, Rachel, I know why you want this. I am the ultimate punishment for every sin you think you have committed. But you have not been responsible for one-tenth of the horrors which I have, even with your unsavory history as a murderous Hound, and if I am a punishment, girl, I am far too worse of one for you."

Slowly, Rachel stood up. Her legs were shaking. "Why are you trying to spare me? I don't get it. Why do you _care_?"

"You are missing the point of this conversation," he said from between clenched teeth.

"No, I think _you_ are. Look, I know you're not a good man. I pretty much figured you weren't one to start with, and I guess I was right. But I still don't understand why you are so determined to save me from myself." Rachel stopped a few feet in front of him, as the _stay away from me_ vibe he was emitting was very strong. "Wouldn't a truly evil man just fuck me and let me worry about my own issues later?"

"Stop trying to make me someone I am not," Sinister said clearly.

"I'm not," Rachel said, though she was beginning to realize maybe she should just leave and forget this entirely. "Believe me. I know who and what you are. Even if you hadn't have given me the grand tour of Sinister's Greatest Hits, I would have gotten it." She heaved a sigh. "I'll leave if you want me to. I'm not going to beg you to sleep with me. But I am going to say this and you can either believe it our not, I don't really care." She approached him and stared straight up at him, her chin tilted. "Yes, Nathaniel, Sinister, whatever name you want--I would still go to bed with you. I would still let you touch me. Even knowing what I do. And if you don't believe me, then why don't you use your goddamn telepathy and see that _I'm not lying_ about it."

"I know that you would," he said, and there was something almost strangled about his words. "But I have made you a promise that I shall honor. I may have a skewed definition of honor, little girl, but I do have one. And I am not going to be the reason why you hate yourself in three months time. That was not our bargain. You have upheld your end and allowed me to do my research, and I mean to uphold mine."

Just like that, Rachel realized what had happened. She realized what the Phoenix meant, and she realized what gift of Apocalypse which she had laid to waste. Though to be fair, it wasn't just her. There had been someone else, before her, long dead now. Someone who had begun this, who had chipped away at his resolve and made him care about something. Someone. Her face glimmered for a moment in her mind, the edges dulled a bit with the natural passage of time. Not her memory. His. "Nathaniel. I'm not _her_. I'm not going to leave and waste away in some nursing home because you're an idiot."

Rachel actually fell backwards as a wave of psychic energy knocked her backwards. She'd really pissed him off, now. Rachel smiled and licked her lips, staring up at him as he advanced towards her. "That's what really makes you angry, isn't it? That despite the fact you're this evil soulless being--and trust me, I really do believe you--you are still incapable of being as dispassionate as you would want. You were in love with Faye, and you can't admit it, because you can't admit that maybe you actually felt something for someone. Well, listen up, I know all about stunting one's emotions when you think you'll die if you have to feel another thing. And all you'll ever be is alone."

"A scenario with which I am quite comfortable. I want you out of my house," he hissed at her, but she didn't believe him. As angry as he was--and there was no denying he was utterly furious--she was unafraid of him.

"No you don't. You said that to her. You threw the door open and you stood there and let her go." The images were coming, fast and furious, but she didn't know if she was seeking them herself or if he were remembering them, and too angry to block her intrusion. "But she died in your arms, when you went to visit her. And I think you told her, at the end, when she was dead. When it didn't matter anymore, because you couldn't be attached any longer." Rachel got to her feet and advanced, fighting him with her own psychic powers. "She wasn't a match for you, Essex, even though she loved you."

"She had less of an idea than you about who I was. She was in love with some man of her own devising, an alias. She wanted some half-invented version of me that did not exist. When I forced her to see who I really was, she despised me."

"But she still _loved you_, and you know it. And besides, I'm not her." Rachel grinned fiercely at him. "Now are you going to stay there arguing with me, or will you please fuck me like I've been wanting?" She sent every single lustful, decadent fantasy she'd had about him--and a few she invented on the spot--right into his mind, and she waited. He was strong, and he had a strength of will equal to few people she'd ever met.

But Rachel was pretty certain he was going to break. The Phoenix purred in her mind, pleased. Rachel held her arms out. "I know what you want to do to me. Go ahead. I'll like it. You know I will. That's what is keeping you up at night, making you drink wine and forcing you to play the piano to relax. Well, I have a better cure for your restlessness. It's what we both want. I have seen who you are--Sinister, Essex, whatever--and I _still want you_. So get over here and take me already, or I will walk out that door like she did. But I'm not going to sit around and pine over you for decades, for fuck's sake. Life's too short. At least, for me it is. Take what I'm offering now or don't. But make up your goddamned mind already."  
He crossed the room in two steps and yanked her against him, and his mouth was on hers and his hands were tearing at her shirt before she could manage a single moment of triumph at his capitulation. "Stop me," he growled against her mouth.

"No." She kissed him back and jumped up in one lithe, graceful gesture, and straddled his waist, crossing her ankles against his back. He moved forward and slammed her against a wall, and she moaned as the pain danced over her skin. "Yes. God. Finally."

He pulled back to look at her while he roughly tore her bra off--he did something with his powers to make the straps disintegrate, a nifty trick--and his hands closed over her breasts and pulled at her nipples. "You are so incredibly vexing." He kissed her again. His mouth was hot, though his hands were still cold.

Rachel didn't care. This was better than being whipped, better than anything. He wanted her so badly she was drowning in it. She managed to get his shirt off so she could scratch her nails down his back, which he liked, and she didn't think she'd ever raked them across anyone's skin as hard as she did to him. "I still kind of hate you," she informed him breathlessly as he managed to somehow get her jeans off of her and toss them aside. He was kissing her neck, pushing himself against her insistently.

"I know." He bit her on the other side of her neck. _So they'll match._ Was that her thought, or his? It didn't matter, really. "I do not mind, so much." His fingers twisted at her nipples, and then his hand went between her legs again, feeling how wet she was through the soft material of her panties.

"Hurry. Foreplay later," she yanked on his hair, and freed it from his neat queue so that it swung free around his face. "_Now_, Essex."

She expected him to turn around and throw her back down on the bed, but evidently he wasn't inclined to wait that long. He reached down and unfastened his trousers, and Rachel concentrated and removed her panties with her powers, and now she was naked, and--yes, he was pressing against her and he was hot and hard and then he was thrusting inside of her, fucking her hard against the wall, and it hurt because it had been a long time and he was ridiculously strong, but it was good and his skin wasn't so cold now, and she wanted him to keep doing that, thrusting hard like was, like he was trying to fuck her through the wall and out the other side--

His hand slammed against the wall by her head and he stared at her while he took her, and she never closed her eyes the whole time, and it was over almost as fast as it had started. She scratched him and he bit her again, and when she came she tightened her legs and nearly saw stars and the pleasure was so intense she found herself holding her breath, for a long second, and the world was dissolving in flashes of white.

His body went still for a moment and then tensed, and then he drove inside of her with one last, brutal thrust and spilled himself with a low gasp. His skin was damp with sweat and she'd scratched him so hard she'd drawn blood. Her body _hurt_, but she'd never felt so good. His face was buried in her neck and she was idly stroking his back, which was smeared with blood from her scratches. She could feel his heart pounding as he recovered his breathing.

He raised his head and looked at her. "I should have made it to the bed."

"Victorian sensibilities be damned," Rachel pronounced, though her voice was still sort of shaky.

"No, it is not that," he said, and she'd never heard his voice so drowsy. "I believe I hit the wall so hard I put a hole in it." He turned his head to see. "Yes, yes I did."

Rachel giggled, the sound a little manic. "Oh. I can fix that." She concentrated, and the material righted itself without a hint that it had been disturbed. "There you go."

"Well. Aren't you useful."

"Sinister, did you just use a contraction?" She gasped in mock surprise.

"A first time for everything." He moved, surprisingly gently, disentangling himself from her. Rachel uncrossed her legs, wincing at the pain, and stood unsteadily on her feet as she looked at him.

"Um." What did they do _now_?

He smiled, and while it wasn't one of those creepy forced smiles of his--though how she knew the difference, she wasn't sure--it still made her a little nervous. "Did all your plans end after you managed to get me into bed?"

"Well, we're not really in bed," Rachel pointed out. She took a long moment to look at him, standing naked in front of her. It took her a second to realize he was doing the same to her. "It's hard to know where you are looking."

"Probably why Apocalypse decided not to give me any pupils."

Well. This was awkward. Rachel swallowed and looked around. "Would you like to do that again? Maybe in the bed this time?"

"Immensely. However, I am quite famished. For something other than you at the moment." He turned and went to his armoire, pulling out clothing. She almost asked him for a shirt, since hers were ruined, but he threw her one before she asked.

There were advantages to being with another telepath. Even an evil one.

They both paused when they were dressed. "This is going to be hard," Rachel said quietly. She didn't want to really think about it, but there was no denying that if they continued whatever they'd started--

She stopped, suddenly. Maybe this was it. Maybe there would be nothing to continue, after tonight. Rachel didn't know if that was what she was afraid of, or what she wanted. God.

He paused by the door. "I would think you know me better than to assume I am ever going to let you go. I did warn you about that. You of all people should know how obsessive I am about things. Come along."

That sounded ominous. Rachel followed him out of the bedroom. She'd worry about it later.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you so much to everyone who has read and left me such nice reviews on this story! This is the final chapter, though there will be one-shots in this 'verse to continue the story. I really appreciate everyone who's left me feedback! I know this is a strange and unconventional pairing, so thanks for coming along with me!!**

**Sionnain **

**Chapter 10**

_It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice; and yet even to these, habit brought — no, not alleviation — but a certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have gone on for years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face and nature._--Robert Louis Stevenson, _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Chapter 10.

"Can I ask you something?"

Sinister looked at her from across the bathtub--she'd not thought it big enough for the both of them, but apparently he had a talent for altering structures to be larger than they appeared--and nodded. "Certainly."

Bathing with someone had always struck Rachel as sort of silly, but she was very sore and a little weak from their last round of violent sex, so he'd had to help her into the tub. He wasn't unscathed himself so he'd just climbed in there with her, and it really wasn't as silly as she might have thought.

"Why do you have that diamond on your forehead?"

If it were possible for Sinister to look sheepish, he might be doing it. "Ah...would you believe...I am not actually sure?"

Rachel snorted. "Not really. I imagine you'd have figured it out in, oh, _a hundred and forty-six years_. Come on, what's it do?"

"I can...emit telekinetic powers through it."

Rachel tried hard to stop herself from snickering, but it didn't work. "Yeah? Show me."

He glared at her. "No."

"Oh, come on, Nathaniel!" She splashed him with water.

A beam of what looked to be bright red light emanated from the center of his forehead. The shampoo bottle hit her in the side of the head, falling into the tub and causing water to splash into her eyes. "There. Satisfied?"

Rachel started laughing. "That's the silliest thing ever," she crowed, righting the shampoo bottle and wiping her hands over her face. "Why did he think that was a good idea?"

"It was intended to be a vehicle by which I could focus my telekinetic abilities. Obviously, I progressed enough that I can do so without using it."

"Obviously," Rachel said, still laughing. "Did you like, end battles-to-the-death by making your opponents laugh when you did that?"

"No, I ended battles-to-the-death by killing my opponent." Sinister smiled at her.

"Because they were distracted, I bet," she responded, though some of her mirth abated at his words. She cocked her head thoughtfully. "I thought maybe Apocalypse had other immortal henchmen, and they all had--"

"A club, a spade, and a heart?" Sinister's eyes narrowed. "Oh, yes, I have never heard _that_ particular jab before, Rachel. Clever girl."

She smiled, leaning back in the bathtub. "I'm supposed to leave the day after tomorrow."

"To go where?"

"Hi, genius? Pretend idiocy doesn't work well on you. You know what I mean. I have to tell them."

This conversation usually ended in one of two ways; at least it had, in the last three days since they first slept together. Rachel started panicking and Sinister started hurting her. This inevitably led to the two of them in bed together with the conversation unfinished. Or, like now, he told her to do whatever was necessary and she dropped it because she didn't really know what to say and he was really unhelpful about the whole thing.

"They're going to think you're brainwashing me."

He actually _winked_ at her. "Perhaps I am."

"Not funny, psycho." Rachel sank lower in the tub. "They're going to try and kill you. Maybe we should move. You have any other houses?"

"Quite a few, actually. I have a manor house in the country. I had planned to relocate there after you left, before this...happened." He gave an elegant shrug. "We may move there, if you wish."

"I like London, though. Maybe we could find another house." She bit her lip. "You are sure you're not going to wake up one morning and try and kill me?"

"No, but it keeps things interesting, does it not?" At her glare, he laughed.

"I hate it when I can't tell if you're joking." She took the shampoo bottle and opened it, beginning to wash her hair.

"I am rarely ever not serious." He sighed. "I hardly think that after succumbing to your wiles, I am going to suddenly decide to get rid of you. And why would I kill you? I have done my level best to see that your genetic line _survives_, Rachel, so why would I end it?"

"Because I'm kind of hard to live with?" She massaged the shampoo into her hair. "I mean, I'm going to annoy the hell out of you _all the time_."

"Yes. Would you believe I had already figured that out?"

Rachel threw the shampoo bottle again. She realized they were dancing around the subject of what to tell the X-Men. He was right, though; it was her decision, and she needed to be the one to tell them. "Maybe I'll go back and get a few of my things. You can teleport me, right?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "Though I am not certain they would not try to kill me, and that is not a terribly good idea as you know I shall defend myself, and possibly killing people you are fond of is not a good idea as you would only be cross at me afterwards."

Rachel decided to let that one go. "Well, at least the rest of the family is safe from you," she joked weakly. "Why kidnap any more of my relatives if you have me around all the time?"

"Why, indeed?"

Rachel stared at him for a moment before turning on the faucet with her powers so she could wash her hair. "No messing with the family, no killing anyone I love, and no taunting anybody."

"No taunting? Now you are disallowing me my sport? That is rather cruel."

She ignored that and leaned under the faucet, washing the shampoo out of her hair as best she could. She soaped herself and tried not to wince as the soap came in contact with her scratches and the welts on her thighs. They both finished up in silence. Rachel wrapped herself in a towel and went to change. She still had her things in the small bedroom she'd been using, but she'd been sleeping in his room. She was relaxed enough at the moment not to dwell on how surreal this was.

She went back into the bedroom to brush our her wet hair, and watched him as he dressed. "I think you're handsome," she said suddenly.

She felt his surprise before he turned to look at her. "That is not a phrase I would have associated with myself."

"I know. It's just, that night you showed me what you looked like before Apocalypse? You said that your appearance was more preferable that way. But I don't think so."

He crossed over to her and ran his hand lightly through her damp hair. She shivered. He wasn't one for casual touches outside of their peculiar brand of intimacy. "Thank you. You are rather lovely yourself." His fingers traced the markings on her face, which she let show here in his house. For some reason, it never bothered her to see them reflected back at her.

Maybe because he had done worse things. Maybe that was what attracted her to him. She would never be as horrible as he was, even if she tried. "Maybe we can tell people our shared facial markings brought us together?" She looked up at him with a small grin. "Even though mine's not lame?"

He ignored her barb about his marking. "It would be preferable, perhaps, to the truth." His fingers traced the Phoenix, slowly. "This is not...I am not going to be easy to live with, as much as you joke about your being the one who is annoying. If you attempt to leave me, I am not certain..." His voice was chill, and he dropped his hand. "I do not know what I would do," he said quietly.

"I'm not going to leave," Rachel said slowly. She didn't hide the fact that his words both frightened and aroused her, which was reason seven-hundred-and-twelve this was a bad idea. "Are you kidding? Not after working through the emotional trauma of wanting to stay." And she did want to stay.

"True." His eyes were darkening again. Rachel's breathing was becoming shallow as he stared down at her. His hair was damp and loose around his face, and she was amazed that she could stand up and press her body to his. It was sort of like being around a panther at the zoo, one that you could touch even though it may just rip your throat out.

"Only if you ask me nicely," he purred, answering the image in her mind. Rachel lay back on the bed and stared up at him challengingly, then arched her back and bared her throat to him.

That put an end to their conversation.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

The day before she would have finished out her allotted one month, she went into his study wearing a determined expression. "I'm going to tell them. Today. No sense putting it off one more day. It's just making me anxious."

Sinister looked up from his desk and placed the book he'd been reading face down, regarding her steadily as she stood before him. "I see. And how do you wish to do this?"

"I think we need to...go somewhere they can't find us. I can't...for a few months, I can't be in contact with them, I don't think. It's the best way." She took a deep breath. "It's...they're going to be furious."

"Likely so." He leaned back in his chair. "Do you require some assistance from me in this matter?"

"No, are you kidding? They'll be mad enough as it is, I don't think you should show up. No offense," she said hastily.

"None taken. Have you worked out what you are going to say?"

She had a feeling he was asking her only because he was being polite. "I guess just that we, um...decided we wanted to..." Rachel buried her face in her hands. "No," she said, the sound muffled. "I thought I'd wing it."

"Best of luck with that, then."

"Damn it, you could at least act like you're--" Rachel stopped herself, closing her eyes, and went to sit down on the chair next to the fireplace. "Never mind."

"Perhaps you should tell them as close a version to the truth as you are comfortable."

"And that would be...?" Rachel looked at him curiously. "How would _you_ explain this? Wait, don't answer that. I'm not sure that won't make me want to melt your brain."

He sighed. "Tell them that we share an...affection...for each other, despite all odds making such a thing unlikely."

"Sinister, that is the _worst explanation ever_." Rachel groaned, though she realized that was only because it was true. "I'm screwed." She felt his smug satisfaction at that and glared at him. "Figure of speech, psycho."

"Possibly you should not use that particular endearment when speaking to your family." He went back to reading his book.

"Who said it was an endearment?" Rachel groused, standing up. She found herself wondering if she really _did_ mean it as such, or if she were tacitly trying to remember of what he was capable. She faced him with her hands on her hips, then said without thinking, "You really do care about me, right?"

He looked completely disgruntled when he answered. "Yes."

"Okay." She nodded decisively "You can work on sounding less pissed off about that."

"All right."

Rachel turned around and left him there. Sitting in the morning room, she closed her eyes and opened her telepathic link to Emma. She might as well get this over with, so she could orchestrate running somewhere they couldn't find her. _Emma. It's Rachel. I need to talk to you._

After a few moments, Emma's voice responded. _Yes?_

_You're going to...I think you better get Scott._ Her heart was racing, and her mouth was dry. She was going to disappoint them. All of them. Of all the things she'd ever done, this was going to be the worst-- _And maybe Rogue. And Kitty. And Logan._

The door to the morning room opened, and Sinister entered. He stood behind her, and placed a hand on her lower back. "I am blocking myself from them, so they shall not know I am here unless you tell them."

She looked at him over her shoulder, and gave a brief nod. Maybe she should look at this as for once, she was finally doing something that she wanted, despite the wishes of everyone else. There had to be something empowering in there, somewhere.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

They were furious, of course.

It was a long, drawn-out process of shouting and psychically trying to convince Emma, Scott, Rogue, Kitty and Logan that no, she was not being mind-controlled. They raved at her about being stupid and that they were coming to save her. No one believed that she was serious, but then again, could she really blame them? _She_ could barely believe that she was serious.

Rachel stared out of the window--it was snowing, huh--and listened to the laundry list of things Sinister had been responsible for, none of which were new to her. Sinister didn't say a word, merely stood silent and still as a statue beside her keeping his hand low on her back. Nothing they said seemed to phase him. It was kind of creepy. Still, there was no way she could defend him since it was all true, so she stood there and took it, let them yell at her, and finally she interrupted them with, "Yes, I know, believe me, I've seen it all. Telepath, remember?"

"Then how could you possibly do this?" Scott's voice was horrified. "Rachel."

"You're living with a reformed villain," she pointed out weakly. "So mine's not...reformed. But at least I can keep an eye on him?"

Sinister glared down at her and hit her none-too-lightly on the back. She ignored him and kept her attention on the others, who launched back into "A hundred reasons why you shouldn't be doing this and we won't let you, and we know where you are so we're coming to get you--"

"She's not going to come back." It was Emma, speaking for the first time. "Scott, She's telling the truth. Sinister isn't mind-controlling her, and Rachel is seriously going to stay with him, no matter what you say. She has abysmal taste in men, but she's not the first woman who will learn you can't change a man."

"I'm not trying to," Rachel returned. She was grateful, a bit, for Emma's interference. "I am going to leave in a minute. I love you all." She concentrated hard, sending a thought to Rogue. _Don't be so hard on Remy, okay? Or your mother. They both love you. Sometimes that's all that matters._

_Ray...please don't do this,_ Rogue pleaded. _I'm so afraid that he's going to kill you._

_He won't, Rogue. Promise. Just...think about what I said, okay?_ Gently, Rachel pulled her awareness back. It was taking all of her considerable skill to focus her psychic links. It was like saying goodbye. It was hard, but it had to be done.

_Emma. Make sure they know I'm not lying and that I'm doing this because it's what I want._

_I can't imagine why you do, but you're at least being honest. Be careful, Rachel. I'll be mad at you if you end up dead and I have to bury another Grey with him._

_I know what I'm getting myself into_, Rachel said carefully. She ignored the comment about her mother. Rachel didn't even want to _think_ about her.

Emma's laugh was a cool breeze in her mind. _I know that you do. That is what has me worried._

Kitty was mostly shocked. She'd not been at the mansion when Rachel had left, and they hadn't talked in a few weeks before she'd left to seek out Sinister. _Be careful. I will come get you myself if you say the word, and I won't even tell Emma. We can run off together and drink margaritas and to hell with saving the world._

Rachel gave a little, choked laugh. _I know, Kit. Love you. Take care._

_Don't get this at all, kid. But it's your choice, and if it's the wrong one, you'll know. And we'll flatten that bastard's face if you need us to,_ Logan told her in his growling voice, and she felt a rush of affection that he, at least, understood.

Rachel pulled back, and sent her thoughts to Scott. _I love you. I'm going to be okay._

_I won't let you. I'll find you. Rachel, you're my daughter. I can't--_ Scott's inner thoughts were a turmoil, and it was so very hard to bear. _I can't lose you to that madman. Please._ In his mind he was watching Jean die, was learning Maddie's true identity, was standing on her mother's grave with Emma.

Tears ran down Rachel's face. She was becoming exhausted with the psychic effort of the links. _I have to. He will never die. I will never have to martyr myself for him. He's not worth it. Don't you understand, that's...nothing else will ever work. Not for me. I'll...I'll get back in touch. But I need a while. Don't come looking for me. You won't find me. I love you, Father. _

With that, she ended it, pulling away from them abruptly. Rachel looked over at Sinister, barely noticing that his hand was absently rubbing her back. "We have to go, and soon. They'll come looking."

He nodded. "Of course. We will."

"I did this for you. Don't make me regret it."

"No. You did this for you. Do not let yourself regret it." His voice was firm. "If you have to leave me, you shall have to incapacitate me first. Promise me that you shall do this, Rachel. I...what I would do. I would not want that."

She blinked at him, wiping tears from her face, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. "Okay," she said carefully, though she didn't think she'd gone through all of that just to turn around and leave. But who knew. This wasn't going to be easy, and she wasn't going to pretend that it was. "I promise."

He kissed her, then, forcing her against him. "The world could go to hell for all I care," he muttered against her mouth, backing her up against the wall. "But not you."

She kissed him back, but the world began to blur. Rachel felt the Phoenix rise within, and she was jerked away from herself as it burst forth like a torrent of fire in her mind. "You have realized, then, the gift of which I spoke."

Sinister was flushed, irritated at the unwelcome intrusion of Rachel's otherworldly inhabitant. "Yes, believe it or not, I had worked that one out for myself."

"You have long been focused on this line, Essex, and yet I do not believe you have ever understood _why_."

Sinister raised a dark brow at that. "So that I could defeat Apocalypse."

"In a sense. There was a prophecy, which was known to you, that a child of the Summers and Grey line would be strong enough to overthrow the yoke of Apocalypse. You saw that this child was born and came into being."

"Yes, I am familiar with the story." Sinister raked a hand through his hair. Rachel would have laughed at him if she weren't pressed back, held captive while the Phoenix spoke forth.

"Prophecies are strange things, Essex. Cable is the child to whom you have always thought the prophecy referred. And I shall not say that you were wrong, since Apocalypse sleeps for now amongst the stars."

The _for now_ was a little worrisome.

"Though I find it interesting that Apocalypse's last hold upon you was broken by another child of that line. For she has destroyed that gift he bestowed upon you, the inability to feel for another or to put their needs above your own. Perhaps in the end, Rachel is the child whose coming was foretold unto you."

Sinister looked as surprised as Rachel had ever seen. "I--well. I had not considered that."

"No, because you think in your admittedly gifted intellectual superiority that you can move people around as pieces on a chessboard. I used to watch while my beloved Jean played chess with Xavier. You think you had control, because you were the king. Everyone knows, Essex, the most dangerous piece on the board is the Queen." Rachel felt her mouth turn up into a smile; it burned like flames whipping across her face. "I shall leave you to ponder the mysteries of the prophecy, and this warning--you will not find caring for her easy, Essex. Betimes you will wish Apocalypse's gift still remained. If you hurt my host, I shall cleave your head from your shoulders, and you shall know agony a thousand fold."

With that, the Phoenix departed. Rachel leaned back against the wall and struggled to breathe. "Did it just give us its blessing?"

Sinister, who looked uncharacteristically surprised at what the Phoenix had said, shook his head. "Perhaps? I have no idea."

"At least someone did," Rachel said weakly. It was hard to stand. "Maybe it'll send a Christmas card."

Sinister moved forward and caught her around the waist. "We should relocate. Now. Perhaps the country house, and then you may find somewhere here to live in a few months time?"

That sounded like a good plan. They were going to need some time alone to figure all of this out, anyway. Rachel swallowed and looked up at him as they moved out of the room. "Nathaniel, I have no idea how this is going to end."

"Nor do I."

"The rules still apply," she told him as they climbed the stairs. "No killing me or my family. No cloning me, either."

"I shan't. One of you is enough."

She thumped him weakly on the shoulder. "I-"

He placed his fingers against her lips. "Enough talking. There is nothing more to say. I shall not let them take you, so we must make haste to leave before they arrive."

That was sort of sweet. Demented, but sweet. Rachel smiled at him cautiously.

No one would understand why she had chosen this, but maybe that didn't matter so much. For so long, all of her decisions about the future had been made _for_ her. This time, she was going to make her own choices, no matter where they led. As Logan had said, it was up to her to direct her own future.

Rachel thought she felt the Phoenix smile, but maybe it was just her. The mark on her face burned bright, just for a moment, and then it was gone, and all that was left was her. Just her.

--Fin


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Rachel had always thought that English country houses were supposed to be elegant, museum-like places where there was no dust on anything and the floors were so polished you could see your reflection. Someone would be standing next to the door with a brochure and a proper British accent, warning in hushed tones about taking pictures with a flash.

That might have been true if said country house was not Milbury. The place was probably gorgeous in its heyday; Rachel could see the hints of former glory in the elegant curves of the house, in the dull gleam beneath tarnished mirrors and the promise of art faded and dull from improper storage. The furniture was covered with thick white cloths turned nearly black with dust, but the few pieces she'd uncovered had been good quality and, beneath the grime, quite elegant.

They were living only in a few rooms, which made Rachel feel like a vagrant or a criminal, and she made it her job to try and put things to right as much as she could. If nothing else, she was getting a lot of practice using her telekinesis. It was nice to use it and feel like she had it under control, instead of constantly feeling her power used _her_. The Phoenix was mostly quiet; sated by lust and Rachel's not-quite-vanquished fear, it slept glutted on raw emotions, curled up warm back in the reaches of her mind.

When they'd first arrived, Rachel hadn't actually done much of anything. Still in shock over having to tell her family and friends she was vanishing with _Mr. Sinister_, of all people, she'd been quiet and withdrawn and guilty. She'd spent most of her time sitting in front of the fire wrapped up in a blanket, trying not to think about what they thought of her now. About what she'd done.

She'd been cognizant enough to appreciate that he'd brought blankets from London; the ratted, thin blankets riddled with holes from whatever creature was living in the house smelled moldy and reminded her of the camps. Rachel was used to sleeping on floors with blankets that teased at warmth they never quite provided, but that didn't mean she was going to suffer through that sort of sleeping arrangement voluntarily.

She and Nathaniel spoke little, those first few days. Their interactions were unfailingly polite but brief; she didn't even know where he was sleeping.

Finally, on the fifth day after they'd arrived, he walked into the living room holding what looked to be a riding crop. Rachel looked up at him almost hopefully. The tension between them had been growing steadily, overlaid with her fear and his obvious anger. He informed her in a chilly voice that he wasn't at all pleased that this had happened between them, and that he was going to have to attend to that before they could settle anything else. He'd put his hand in her hair and dragged her bodily to the large, ornate dining room, where the covered furniture looked like ghosts in the darkness.

The day passed in a haze of pain. He forced her to endure more than she thought she could take, and yet, she was addicted to the adrenaline and the release and never once thought about stopping him. Oh, she fought back, when she divined that was what he wanted. She always submitted in the end. There was sex mixed in with the pain, but it was rough and brutal and hurt almost as much as his other inventive torments. Still, every time she thought about him taking her from behind with her face pressed against the wall, his breath hot and furious on her neck and his hand wrapped like a vise in her hair, she went weak in the knees. She'd still come, despite how vicious it had been.

There was something about what he was doing that was for her, too, and even in the midst of everything she was able to realize that. Rachel was able to purge herself of the crushing guilt that she'd betrayed everyone she'd ever known in the most horrible way possible by wanting to stay with him, so that when it was over, she could figure out where to go from here and some plan for her future.

Afterwards, the dining room was riddled with smashed furniture and broken glass. He carried her up the stairs and she had a hazy recollection of him bathing her, his hands gentle. She actually fell asleep lying on top of him with her face buried in his neck, and they both slept until the next evening when the sun was just beginning to fade and the sky was the color of flame.

Rachel fixed up the study that night, righting the furniture and using her powers to dust and clean until things were fresh and shining. It was a pretty room. There were paintings of people long dead, all named _Milbury_. Rachel wondered which one was Nathaniel's wife. It was her family's home, after all. She couldn't remember if he'd told her that, or if she had gleaned it from his mind.

Maybe if she kept looking, she'd find something interesting. There was something very weird about the thought Nathaniel had been here when the faded photographs were taken; that he had walked through the halls with Rebecca holding his arm, going towards dinner in the same room where he and Rachel had nearly destroyed the furniture with their violent play.

Her project then became both the music room and the room he called the _morning room_ and she called "the blue room with the ugly furniture and the frilly wallpaper." She managed to clean things but had to take a little break when she discovered a little nest of mice beneath the table.

Nathaniel laughed at her. "Enough power to drown out the sun, and you are afraid of _mice_?" He was in a much better mood, too, though it sort of disturbed Rachel that she could tell that about him.

"I'm not _afraid_ of them," Rachel said haughtily, hands on her hips. She glared at him through two pieces of errant hair covering her eyes, blowing at them exasperatedly. "I just don't think I should have to deal with them. It's _your_ house."

He arched a brow at that logic. "Are you asking me to kill the rodents for you, poppet?"

Rachel wondered if maybe she were crazy, that his endearment made her smile. Hell. That was the last thing she had to be worried about. "Can't you just...put them outside or something?"

"So they shall come right back?"

Rachel went into the other room and let him get rid of them, but she thought maybe they should just get a cat or something because somehow that would be less horrible than sending him to kill things. He came back inside and the cloth was empty. Rachel wanted to ask him how he killed them, but she didn't. Instead, she went back to work.

The morning room was nice when she finished, but she still hated the wallpaper. Ugh. Maybe there was something nice beneath it. She started stripping it, using her powers to dissolve the very particles themselves. Maybe with some paint, it would be nice. Or something. It looked, though, like it was plaster. Plain plaster. And she could paint it, maybe, but why? How long were they going to be here, anyway?

Thinking about the future still made her nervous. Rachel levitated in the center of the room, palms out, eyes flashing white. In a little under five minutes, the entire room was stripped of wallpaper and put to rights. At least she'd managed to fix some of the holes in the wall. The place was too big, and honestly, far too decrepit to ever live in, but it was at least...not quite such a mess as it had been before. It was starting to become more of a whole, and less of a damaged shell--

_Right. Thanks. I get the comparison._

Nathaniel was watching her from the doorway. He must have sensed her using her powers and come to see. He liked it when she did that, burned hot and bright and dangerous. They didn't get anything else done, the rest of the day.

ooooOOOOoooo  
There was a town, about thirty miles away. Nathaniel said _fifty kilometers_, and Rachel laughed at him, until he reminded her that they were in England and no one but "you bloody stubborn Yanks" used the English system. Rachel was noticing things about Nathaniel. How British he was, for one thing, and how completely a man of his time he could be on occasion. He stood up every time she entered a room, but in the sort of distracted way that suggested it was more of a habit than anything else. He always waited for her to start eating, first. He actually _pulled out her chair_ for her at meals.

It was really strange that he had such nice manners, and yet he'd tortured her father. Huh.

The town, Highbury, was small and quaint and looked like the type of place you stopped to take "Scenic English Country Town" pictures if you were in the area. Thatched roof cottages and little stone buildings. Rachel hadn't wanted to leave the house, really, but she thought maybe it would be good to remember that the world did not consist merely of her and Nathaniel and a still-mostly-decrepit English country house.

_God. My life is weird._

Rachel went alone. She wondered if Nathaniel was worried she wasn't going to come back. She thought about it, honestly, for a few seconds. She had Nathaniel teleport her about a mile away from the little town, eager to get some exercise. It was a pretty walk. She was in a good mood when she got there. The people were curious but Rachel didn't mind. An American wandering in with no car, pretending to live up at the empty Milbury House--did she expect that they wouldn't be curious? She made sure they forgot her the moment she bid them farewell, of course. No sense starting tongues wagging, when she didn't know how long she'd be there.

There wasn't much to buy in the little town. At least she had money--proper money, too. She'd asked Nathaniel for some, and he'd laughed, but he'd handed her a fair amount when she'd left the house. She didn't think he'd created it himself, but Nathaniel was a genius. If he had, she was sure it would be fine. Besides, she didn't buy a lot. Bread, some fresh milk, and some mutton. That was what people were always eating for dinner, in those romance novels of Kitty's she used to read.

Those had really never done anything for her, those novels. Rachel had read them and found herself somewhat annoyed by the sex scenes. Too romantic. Considering her obvious sexual tastes, that sure made a whole lot of sense.

She bought a lot of cheese, too. They sold a lot of it. And a very nice, heavy English sweater that she thought would look good on Nathaniel. And a warm blanket, made out of Shetland wool, that was impossibly soft to the touch. There was a little pub, and she had lunch there. Listening to the thoughts of the people, their thick country English accents. Talking about lambing and shearing and slaughtering. Things that people did to make a living, when they didn't have to save the world. Or kill to survive. It was nice, really, to think about places like this existing.

They must have existed, too. In her reality. Somewhere beyond the camps and the urban cities, surely there had been farms. People who had lived their whole life, like these people, without seeing a mutant, probably. They were all dead now. Rachel wondered what they had been doing when the world had ended. They must have been surprised, in that split-second before it all faded to nothing. If they'd had time to be surprised.

She wondered if she should feel guilty about their deaths, too. Hadn't she caused them? Inadvertently?

_No. Stop it. That's not your fault. It's Kitty's, if it's anyone's, and she doesn't let it bother her. Just stop it right now._

Rachel paid for her lunch and took her bags--they gave her thick burlap sacks to carry things in, and the milk was in real glass bottles--and it was starting to get cold. She tugged the sweater she'd bought for Nathaniel over her head. It was way too big for her, which meant it may fit him. She wondered how on earth he (I'm wanting "he'd" or "he had" here) found clothes to fit his frame, back when he'd been mortal. He would have still been an imposing man. She wondered if Rebecca had liked that about him. Did Rebecca like to feel a little afraid?

Nathaniel couldn't have been _that_ different.

She started walking. It was growing dark, and God--when it was dark in the country, it was _dark_. Somewhere in the distance she heard a dog begin to bark. Something brayed. Rachel shivered. She was supposed to send him a mental message when she was ready for him to come back to meet her, but she was still a good half mile away.

The dog barked again. She heard a sharply spoken reprimand--the dog's owner, probably. Rachel started shaking.

_Don't you get above yourself, mutie._

Rachel swallowed, huddling in Nathaniel's sweater. She sat, right where she was, on the ground. Just at the edge of the path on the grass. It was only a path because people had walked down it so often and worn away a place to walk. Rachel put her bags beside her and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. The man and the dog passed by, and Rachel shielded herself so she remained unnoticed.

The dog was large; one of those working breeds, all limber and tall enough for a small child to ride upon, if given half a chance. Rachel saw herself, on hands and knees, following obediently after her handler. Hoping, even though she knew it was wrong, for a small bit of praise. The touch of a hand on her, even if just for a second, in kindness.

_Maybe that's why I don't want Nathaniel to touch me nicely._

The air smelled like it did back up at the house, when she and Nathaniel would go outside. Sometimes Rachel would look up at the stars--she could see so many, here, unlike New York or London. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. Somewhere, someone had lit a fire. The smoke was thin, wafting tendrils just teasing at her senses. But the smoke reminded her of fires, and that reminded her of death. The velvety night became something alien and evil, instead of comforting.

Rachel buried her face in her sweater. She could smell wool. All she could remember was how people smelled when they were burning.

He found her there an hour later. Shivering and huddled up against the rapidly-descending cold, frozen and unaware of her surroundings.

"Rachel," he said, and his voice was impassive, completely without emotion. "Look at me."

_Never look,_ her inner voice whispered. _Never look them in the eye--_

Pain shocked through her, like lightning breaking out of the sky, electric and immediate. Rachel's head was bent backwards, his hand in her hair. He slapped the side of her face. Not hard enough to snap her head back, but hard enough to snap her out of it. Wherever she was. Enough for her to give a choked sort of sob and stare at him, wide-eyed. His eyes were a soft crimson glow in the darkness.

The world tilted and blurred, and then they were in the house. She hoped he remembered the bags that were lying by her on the ground next to her.

He took her to his bedroom. Pulled the sweater off--"This is a bit big for you, is it not?"--and Rachel couldn't seem to find words to tell him that it was for _him_. "Ah," he said, finding the thought amidst her terror. "I see. Thank you, it is very nice. Appears warm, though not warm enough to keep you from shivering as you are."

Nathaniel had a nice voice, Rachel decided, somewhat dazed. It sounded like she imagined brandy tasted. She'd never had brandy. Rachel didn't drink a lot, because it made her emotions more out of control than they already were. She wanted to explain these things, but she couldn't. She was still hearing the dog's bark and the man's snapped chastisement, and smelling fire. Something inside of her began to shut down.

Nathaniel slapped her again. "Would you like me to whip you?" he asked, voice perfectly serene. Rachel had been whipped, before. Before he'd done it to her in his lab, when she'd asked him. Back in the camps, she'd endured it amidst laughing and taunting and rough hands grabbing her breasts while she'd been bound to the post. The men who whipped her were never very good at it. They missed and hit her in the face, a lot. Nathaniel wouldn't do that. He wasn't laughing or taunting. He was watching her calmly, politely. Rachel nodded.

"Yes, please."

He pushed her down on the bed and she went with relief. At the first lash of the belt on her back, she sighed and turned her face into the blanket. Fingers curled into the comforter. Blissful. He knew how to do this _right_. Fire burned up and down her back in a steady, even, dependable rhythm. It felt so good she wanted to cry. She did; silently, tears running down her face and into her mouth.

_Thank you._ She was smiling.

"You are welcome," he said, stopping. Rachel could feel it, the snaking caress of his lust. She didn't mind. He was different than the jeering men with their rough hands and sloppy wet kisses. They liked to watch her hurt, liked to hurt her, because she was abased and beneath them.

Nathaniel wanted her because she was strong. His equal. She knew that, because now that the terror was over she could sense it, what he wasn't shielding. She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at him. He was shirtless, and sweating. Rachel had never beaten anyone. She didn't realize how much effort it took.

"It does when it is _you_," he said. His hair had come loose from his queue and was in his eyes. He needed to shave. Rachel spread her legs slowly. An enticement. She wanted him to climb up on the bed and mount her while she was on her stomach. Hold her by the neck and shove her face into the mattress while he fucked her, hard and rough. She was wet, already, just thinking about it.

Rachel shifted on the bed. Pressed her hips down, rubbed up and down. The covers were bunched a bit beneath her, giving her enough of something to rub against. She was whimpering. "Nathaniel..."

He was watching her. "Yes?"

Was she _mewling_? Whimpering, definitely. God. Rachel's back was on _fire_ and she was moving faster, rubbing herself against the bed. "Isn't this nice?" she asked him, a bit breathlessly.

"Very much so. That is why I am still over here." His voice was still calm, as pleasant as the shopkeeper who had bid her good day after selling her the sweater.

Rachel used her telekinesis to bring his sweater up from where he'd tossed it on the floor when he'd stripped her. She moved it beneath her, so she was pressing against the wool. It was scratchy and rough and hurt just a little against her swollen, tender flesh. "Ah, this--" she was moving faster, rubbing back and forth, sweat beginning to sting the welts on her back. He hadn't broken her skin. It was sort of amazing that he knew he didn't have to do that. This time. "Ah. Maybe I'll--keep this," she panted, looking back at him again.

He actually smiled at her. "It is a little too big for you," he said pleasantly, dropping the belt.

Rachel paused. "I'm--I'm close, you know," she informed him, moving again, liking the way the pleasure spiked and met the pain and whirled together in soft colors and gentle, peaked edges.

"Are you?"

Nathaniel sounded--was he _bored_? Rachel huffed and looked forward again, concentrating, focusing on the pain and the slide of wool against her clit, forcing her closer, and--

She should have figured it. The minute she ignored him...

Nathaniel's hand was around her neck. The sweater was gone, and she found herself unable to move or rub or do anything. Oh, she could if she wanted to, really. But she didn't. He squeezed her neck and his hand was in her hair, and she begged for him to stop, but she didn't really want that, either.

It was nice that he understood.

ooooOOOOoooo

"Can I have some brandy?"

Rachel was lying on her stomach on the sofa in the morning room. Her back was neatly bandaged, her hair drying from her bath. She was wearing nothing but her clean white bandages, and Nathaniel had draped her new blanket over her. She was warm and drowsy, but not exactly sleepy. Nathaniel was playing the piano, his fingers moving effortlessly over the keys. She didn't recognize what he was playing, but it was nice. He was very good. The sound reminded her of the night she'd heard him playing for the first time. Was that only just a few short weeks ago? It seemed much longer.

"I imagine so, if we have any." Nathaniel's hair was wet, too. He was wearing his new sweater. She'd asked him if he wanted her to wash it--considering what she'd been doing with it--and he'd just smiled at her. The sweater fit him rather well. He looked warm.

Everything seemed warm. Rachel stretched deliciously, feeling her muscles on her back protest in soreness. "Do you know where it is?" Mentally, she began scanning the bottles in the cabinet in the dining room. Dusty and old, labels faded and worn.

"Where you are looking. I did not know you could do that with your telepathy. Remote viewing, I mean."

Rachel heard the sharp note of interest in his voice. She might have been vaguely insulted if she hadn't been so relaxed. He'd sounded more intrigued by that than he had when she'd been naked on his bed, back welted from his belt, writhing and wet and wanting him.

He looked over his shoulder. "During which part of that did I seem disinterested?"

She thought back, to what had happened. Watching his face over her shoulder while he fucked her. Nathaniel's expression hardly ever changed. "The whole thing? You're not--you don't have a lot of facial expressions. There's creepy, mildly annoyed, sardonically amused, and your usual blank stare." She grinned at his expression. "Right now? That's mildly annoyed."

"Only mildly, you think?"

Rachel laughed. "I know that I am more than mildly annoying. I can, however, tell that you are relaxed. So maybe you don't mind so much, right now."

"Then, you should have been able to guess I was not disinterested." He turned back to the piano, resuming his playing.

"Well, I mean, I got that when it mattered," she purred, remembering how good it had felt. His body hard and strong, pinning hers down. Thrusting hard and rough inside of her. Rachel shivered at the sensory memory.

Nathaniel's fingers missed a note. Rachel smiled. His reactions, his emotions--they were subtle. Maybe they always would be. But they were _there_, and maybe that was all that mattered.

"Why did you want brandy? It is rather vile, I should imagine, most certainly if it has been kept in that cupboard since the last time I had any."

She thought about earlier. "Just wanted to try it. I never have. I seem to be doing a lot of things I usually don't do. Lately." Rachel's fingers traced the pattern in the sofa upon which she lay. "Why is none of this furniture comfortable?"

"Victorians. We did not believe in comfort." He stood up. "I shall see about your brandy, little one."

Rachel watched him move out of the room, the way he walked. She sighed and put her head back down. She was tired. Nathaniel. I'm starving. Could you get some of that cheese, and the bread-- it occurred to her that maybe he'd left the bags. Then she remembered who he was. Nathaniel Essex would not have forgotten. From the stuff I bought.

Certainly, came his reply, and Rachel closed her eyes and waited for him to come back. She was starting to get tired, but she really _was_ starving. When he came back, he had a plate of cheese and bread, and two glasses of amber liquid that she surmised was brandy. He placed the plate of food down on the low table between the sofa and his chair. Rachel ate some of the bread and English white cheddar--it was divine--and moved to lean back against the sofa with the blanket around her shoulders. She sipped at the brandy, and winced. It was a rich taste, but strong. Too much for her. Maybe his voice sounded more like whiskey.

Nathaniel sipped at his brandy, and then--was he smoking a _pipe_? Rachel started giggling. "Um? Are you like, a British aristocrat all of a sudden because we're in this house?"

"No," he said, lifting his chin a bit. "My father was an aristocrat, not I. However, I was obliged to join the post-dinner brandy and cigar--or pipe, if one preferred--gathering in the library. As our library is still rat-infested, the music room shall do." Nathaniel smirked at her around the pipe. Somehow, despite the fact she'd never seen him do this, it seemed very fitting. The smoke was fragrant and thick, spicy with a hint of chocolate.

"You look like Sherlock Holmes," Rachel said, nibbling on a piece of bread. She cocked her head, considering him. She wondered where he was looking.

"Do I? I would have thought Moriarty, myself," he said, giving a low laugh. It made Rachel shiver pleasantly, and then she realized he was looking at her breasts, and the bruises from his hands forming around the sides. For a moment she was disoriented, wondering how she could possibly know that. Then she realized he was showing it to her.

Rachel was oddly touched. It was a lowering of his defenses. His unfathomable eyesight would have been something she could easily use her _own_ powers to figure out, but it was sort of sweet that he made it unnecessary. "Moriarty. Of course. How silly of me." She giggled. "If you were Holmes, then I could be Watson."

"He was a bit of a chump, was he not? I mean, useless, rather, if you think about it logically." 

Nathaniel puffed on the pipe. Rachel wondered if he could make smoke rings. She concentrated, forming the smoke into little circles as it rose. "Hee," she said, pleased with herself. "So when you came here, did you smoke pipes in this room? Or, I mean, the rat-infested one?"

"Occasionally. I never much cared for this ritual. I despised politics, and if we were to discuss things of which I had an interest, I either bored the other men to tears, else I infuriated them into trying to throw decanters at me."

Rachel laughed, pushing the plate of cheese away. She took another sip of her brandy. "I'll bet." She held out her hand. "May I?"

He looked confused for a second, then realized what she wanted. "That's not entirely appropriate," he started, and Rachel started laughing.

"I am sitting here naked with bandages covering where you _whipped me with a belt_--"

"Yes, there is that, but you _did_ ask--" he protested, but handed over the pipe. "Have you any idea how to do this? Faye, she smoked cigarettes. I believe it made her very sick. Perhaps you should not inhale."

"Nathaniel, I know how to smoke a pipe." She raised it to her mouth. "Well. I mean. I inhaled it when I smoked it. But there wasn't tobacco in it."

"What on earth do you smoke in a pipe if not tobacco?"

Rachel looked at him for a long moment. "Nathaniel. You're a genius. Think like one."

"Ah," he said, watching her, his interest sharpened as she took a puff on the pipe and let the smoke fill her mouth. She tried to blow smoke rings herself, but without her powers, she couldn't do it.

He held his hand out, and she passed the pipe back to him. He inhaled again, and blew a perfect set of smoke rings.

"Show off," she said teasingly. Her mouth tasted like the tobacco. "So were Rebecca's family aristocrats, too?"

He thought for a moment. "Of a sort. Landed gentry, very wealthy. I believe Rebecca's father held a titular lordship, at some point."

Rachel stared at him blankly. "Which is...?"

"He bought a title. It was very popular, you see, if you were wealthy. Do well in the merchant class, purchase a title and a country estate, and suddenly you are as blue-blooded as Bonnie Prince Charlie." Nathaniel puffed on the pipe.

Rachel knew, of course, that he'd been alive a long time. But she was suddenly very disoriented, as if she were having conversation with a ghost. Nathaniel's appearance was not nearly as disconcerting as his easy references to his past life. "And your family? Were they--ah, whatever that word was you used?"

"Of course not," he said, a bit stuffily. "My father's title was quite old. Which was all it had behind it, you understand. We were nearly penniless, which is why we sold our country home and moved to Town."

Rachel heard the capital _t_ in the word _Town_. She'd read a lot of Victorian romances. None of them had red-eyed evil scientists in it that whipped the heroine with his belt, though. Maybe she would have liked them better if they had. "And so you have a title?"

"I suppose, by virtue of being the last living Essex of our line, but it passed to my older brother. I was the youngest of three sons. I should have had to push one of them off a cliff to inherit."

"I heard that happened a lot," Rachel said wisely, sipping her brandy. It was better, the more of it she drank. A bad sign, probably.

"Did you?" He gave her an amused look. "Really? Where did you hear that?"

_Amanda Quick novels._ "Books," Rachel said vaguely. "So your brother was the oldest, and became Lord--Essex?"

"Northbury, I believe." His brow furrowed. "Would you believe, I cannot recall? I am sure there is some deed, somewhere. At any rate, it would have been my brother. He died with only daughters, so the title must have passed to some relation. My other brother, he never married. My sister never had children, so perhaps it died out, our family title."

"You had a sister?" Rachel wasn't sure why that surprised her, but it did. "Younger?"

"Yes. Her name was Julia. She died when I was still young."

"Geez, all your family died," Rachel said, leaning back against the couch. That hurt her welts, so she leaned forward again.

"Rachel, everyone I knew is dead now," he said blandly, sipping at his own glass of brandy. "A perk of immortality. Outliving everyone who may have possibly annoyed you."

"But you have relatives! I mean, you do," she said defensively, thinking. "Descendants of your siblings. Somewhere. Right?" Her eyes narrowed. "You can't tell me _you_ of all people don't know who they are, where they live. I mean, it's _you_. Mr. Obsessed-with-bloodlines."

"Yes. I almost took that as my alias, but I thought it too cumbersome." Rachel giggled and he continued. "I did some preliminary research, back in the twenties. Their bloodline was rather unremarkable." He shrugged. "So I pursued it no further."

Rachel tugged the blanket around her shoulders. His words were chilling and effectively killed her earlier amusement. _Their bloodline was rather unremarkable._ "Not like mine, then."

Nathaniel put his glass down. "No," he said quietly. "Not like yours."

Rachel turned and looked out of the window. It was late. The brandy was making her sleepy, and the thick cloud of tobacco smoke was aromatic and comforting. She lay back down, on her stomach, arranging the blanket to cover her. "My back hurts."

"Mmm," he said, smiling at her around the pipe. "That was the intent."

"Can I take aspirin, with booze?"

"Not too much, or you shall damage your liver," he cautioned, sounding to Rachel very much like a doctor. He must have heard that thought. "I _am_ one. A doctor. If you wish to be technical."

"Then why isn't it Dr. Sinister?" she asked, yawning.

He sighed. "I have attempted to explain that I never did put the _mister_ on there in the first place, but no one believes me."

Rachel smiled. She wanted to ask him more questions. About his life. Before he was even _Doctor_ Essex. What it was like, for him. What his sister was like. If he envied his brothers. She thought Nathaniel was probably quiet, reserved. She imagined him reading, in the corner of a room very much like this one. Two other boys, slightly older, one fair-haired and one dark-haired, wrestling on the floor. It was mid-afternoon and Nathaniel, he was annoyed. That he couldn't read. That they were disturbing him.

_"You're being queer, Nathaniel, do stop reading."_ The eldest boy, dark-eyed and stocky. Not as tall as Nathaniel. _"Why cannot you be normal and cease your stupid reading?"_

_"Yes, do,"_ the younger, fair-haired boy taunted. He was taller than the eldest, but thinner. Too lanky for his body. _"You and your bloody books--you are just trying to impress Mr. Jeffries. Right, James?"_ Obviously seeking approval from the eldest, the tall boy stopped in front of where Nathaniel sat.

The eldest nodded. They were stopping their wrestling, banding together against their youngest brother. It was what siblings did. _"Bloody idiot. You are going to be a farmer, and everyone knows it. I am to be the lord, Richard my second, and they'll send you off to war and then you shall work the fields and have a tan."_

Nathaniel looked up, finally, from his book. His eyes were a startling bright blue. "I shan't work in the fields, and if Richard is your second, we shall be bankrupt," he said, and Rachel knew that she wasn't seeing some fanciful image but a memory of Nathaniel's childhood. "I am smarter than both of you put together, and I shan't care what you do to me, but I shall keep reading my book."

Rachel watched as they pulled at him, tearing the book away. Two-against-one weren't very good odds. They left him alone after awhile, bored with their sport. Nathaniel had a split lip and a black eye. He couldn't have been more than nine. Rachel watched the way he stood up, brushed his clothes off, put himself back together. "One day, I shall (missing word) bigger than they, and they shan't beat me up anymore," he said, turning his head. Rachel thought he was talking to himself, but he wasn't. There was a little girl in the corner, watching. She looked just like Nathaniel; dark hair, bright blue eyes. Julia.

"They are not very nice, N'thaniel," the girl said, his name obviously too much for her to say all at once. She had curly hair wrapped up in a blue ribbon that just matched her eyes. "I like when you read me stories. They are mean and steal my dollies."

"Well then, I shall read to you," Nathaniel said, picking up his book. "Just do not tell them you are clever, Julia, or they shall always be quite horrid that a girl is smarter than they."

The image faded. Rachel opened her eyes. Nathaniel was no longer sitting across from her; he was standing by the window, looking out towards the darkness. "What happened? To Julia."

"She died a few months after that incident I showed you. My brothers were supposed to be watching her, and they wandered off. She drowned in the lake." Nathaniel's voice was still impassive. "My parents were distraught and my brothers were soundly reprimanded. Not punished, of course; though had Julia been a boy, I imagine they would have been. I, however, beat the two of them bloody." She saw his hands, clasped behind his back, flex briefly. A small, almost unnoticeable gesture. "They never bothered me again."

His story almost made her want to cry. But she didn't. Nathaniel had done a lot of horrible things to other people. Her family. One sad tragedy did not make him worthy of tears. Think of how many he'd perpetrated against other people. Her people.

He looked over his shoulder at her. He looked--well. Sinister, for lack of a better word. She remembered the vibrant blue of his eyes, from his shared memory. They were swallowed by crimson now, and it was a reminder. He wasn't that little boy anymore. "Now, you begin to understand, I think."

Rachel stood up, walked over to where he was standing. She stood next to him, but she didn't touch him. "Yes," she said quietly. "I think I do." She placed her hand lightly on his back. He tensed immediately, but he didn't move away.

It was a start.

ooooOOOOoooo

Rachel had found the door to the attic at the end of the hallway on the third floor. It was up a long flight of stairs, and it was _creepy_ and she kept trying to get her nerve up to open the door. She actually did, once, and the creaking noise it made was so loud and scary that she'd jumped back and shrieked and felt stupid. And then hadn't gone up there for another week.

It was just...Rachel was beginning to think she wasn't cut out for pastoral living. She and Nathaniel couldn't have sex all the time, because she needed time to heal after they were intimate. So sometimes she took walks, and went down to the lake, and most of the time she explored the house and tried to fix it up. She wondered if they could hire someone to keep it up, when they left. If they left.

The uncertainty of all of this wasn't bothering Rachel as much as it should. She was so tired of always worrying about the future. There was no reason to do that with Nathaniel, because he couldn't die. Rachel wondered if he understood that so much of her attraction to him was his immortality. And the fact he was never going to be worth martyrdom. That was the thing she couldn't explain to her family, either.

Well. Maybe that wasn't the sum of her attraction to him. She'd found him shaving that morning, shirtless, leaning over the bathroom sink. He shaved with a straight razor, which Rachel had never seen before except in movies. She'd leaned against the doorframe and watched him running the blade over his pale skin. There was something so erotic about that. She'd wanted to ask him to tie her down and do that to her, drag that razor over her racing pulse.

He'd met her gaze in the mirror and smiled. "Later," he'd said, and she'd shivered. Smiled back.

Now she was in the attic, to hopefully pass some time before Nathaniel made good on that smile he'd given her. There were a lot of trunks. Most of them covered in dust. She tried to open a few before she closed her eyes and vanished all the dust. Good. That was much easier. Rachel lost track of time as she went through the trunks, looking at pictures--those that were not too faded to see. There were ridiculous moth-eaten clothes, and a lot of furniture, and newspapers and songbooks, of all things.

The light coming in made the shadows look strange and alien. Rachel went and opened one last trunk, and she saw a picture in a frame streaked with dirt. She was able to use her powers to clean it pretty easily. She realized in a matter of seconds that she was looking at Nathaniel. He had still been an abnormally tall man, even before Apocalypse, and he had that same low ponytail and intense stare even in the picture. His hand was resting on the shoulder of a woman, seated next to him.

Rebecca.

Rachel had seen vague impressions of Nathaniel's wife, from his memories. She was a pretty woman, with dark hair and wide, large eyes. Tall--not as tall as him--but taller than was in fashion for women of her time. Close to Rachel's height. She looked, to Rachel, like she was in one of those old-fashioned photos you could get at theme parks and for souvenirs in small touristy towns. She was smiling. Maybe not very much, but compared to everyone else's sombre expressions, it was almost like grinning. She looked a little mischievous. Lively. When Rachel had glimpses of the man Sinister had been when he'd just been Essex, she didn't think of him as particularly jovial.

She thought about Faye. Nathaniel had pictures of her, still, because it wasn't that long ago, and she'd seen them in his house in London. Faye had short blonde hair, lips that were too red, smoky makeup. Her dress had been very short. She'd looked just like what Rachel had always imagined a flapper from the twenties would. Nathaniel, looking like his alias Nathan Essex, had been in the picture too. He looked just serious as he did in the picture with Rebecca. Just the same as he did most of the time, now.

Rachel called him _Nathaniel_ because she absolutely refused to call him an adjective for a name, but she didn't think Nathaniel was the same person as he was back in the picture with his wife. Rachel looked at the picture. Rebecca was beautiful. Dark-haired, body as wispy as a willow. Faye had been smaller than Rachel. A boyish figure with small eyes and a crooked front tooth. A radio comedian who talked too loudly, laughed a lot.

Her, Rachel.

What did they have in common?

Rachel touched her fingers to Rebecca's picture. Suddenly, she had a sharp image of the woman lying on the floor. Lovely eyes gone wide with horror. Blood soaking her dress. A look of utter betrayal twisting her pretty features into something ugly.

She saw Faye, sobbing, running out into a storm to get away from something that was terrifying her. Slipping and falling in a sodden heap in the grass.

"It is not what you have in common," he said quietly, from the doorway. "It is how you are different."

Rachel looked up, unsurprised to find him there. He looked taller, from where she sat on the ground, which was disconcerting given his height. "I know. You can't break me. You can try but it won't work. You broke them." She shook her head. "Can't you show me something nice, that you remember?"

"I suppose. It does not matter." He walked over to where she was standing. Looked down at the picture of his dead wife. "She was very lively. She used to drive me mad. I would try to work, and she would sit in my lap and tug on my hair and tell me to stop glowering." His face did not change expression as he spoke. "Faye was the same. We used to go to parties. I would loathe them. She would put her arm around my waist and tell me amusing stories about the other people who were there."

Rachel wasn't sure what this meant, what he was telling her. "You loved her. Rebecca." Something became immediately clear to her. "When she died, you took Apocalypse's offer because you were heartbroken and guilty."

"Perhaps. I no longer remember."

Rachel didn't believe him. "I am a walking ball of emotions," she said bluntly. "Maybe I'm not lighthearted like Rebecca or funny like Faye. But maybe you just like women who aren't afraid to show emotions." She stood up, handing him the picture. "Do you want this?"

"No. I recall what she looked like well enough."

Rachel nodded and put it back in the trunk. She shut it tight. "I was just trying to figure out what your type was." She looked at him warily. He looked the same as always, but something about his posture screamed he didn't want to be touched. Rachel didn't care. She wasn't interested in his thoughts on the matter. She pressed herself against him, noticing how his entire body tensed in reaction.

His hands rested on her waist. "I do not have a type."

"Sure you do. Nathaniel, I don't believe you went--how long was it, since Faye? Eighty years or whatever? I don't believe you went that long without sex." She knew she was bothering him. Invading his personal space. She still didn't care.

"Of course not. There are ways to fulfill that particular need which do not require the effort of courting."

That made her laugh, because it was such an old-fashioned way to say it. "Uh huh. Did you, what? Hire prostitutes?"

He shrugged. "Possibly, a few times. I do have telepathic powers and am very good at persuasion."

Rachel went still. "You telepathically forced women to have sex with you?"

"Of course not," he said, a bit stiffly. "I merely ascertained what they wanted from a sexual partner and altered my physical appearance to be what they wanted."

That seemed like the same thing to her. "But you have...sort of particular tastes, Nathaniel."

"You are not the only woman who shares my particular tastes," he murmured. He was beginning to walk her backwards. Rachel allowed it, moving skillfully backwards, until she felt the sharp brick beneath her back. "Though that was a bit harder to come by, admittedly." He started kissing her neck.

Rachel gasped and tilted her head, her hands grasping at his shoulders. "Did they like it? Faye, Rebecca?"

"No. I suppose Faye did, in part. She liked things she would not admit to, I imagine. I could tell, even when she was afraid." Nathaniel's mouth was pressed against her pulse. "Rebecca did not."

"Then how did you--" Rachel moaned as he bit her, sudden and sharp, the pain a delicious rush in her blood and a sting behind the eyes--"how did you manage to figure it out? What did you do if your wife didn't like it?"

Nathaniel raised his head and smiled at her darkly. "That, we did have prostitutes for. They cost a bit more, but they would allow such things. Some of them may have even liked it."

He lowered his head and began kissing her throat, his hand sliding beneath her sweater. His skin was cold against hers.

"That's totally demented," Rachel gasped, squirming. "And, by the way, cheat on me and I'll melt your fucking _brain,_ Essex."

"Mmm. You are very attractive when you threaten me with bodily harm. And I shan't go to prostitutes or other women. Now I have you." He looked up, then shoved her back against the wall, hard. Too hard. His hands grabbed at hers and pinned them against the wall, above her head. "Do I not?"

Rachel was having a hard time breathing. She couldn't understand the tone beneath his smooth voice, and it was hard to read his expression without being able to see anything save red in his eyes. He was sending some mixture of lust and possessiveness and something else, something fragile and faint, and Rachel looked at him for a long moment before she nodded. "Yes," she said quietly. "Now you have me."

He looked as if he were going to speak, but instead, he bit her on the neck. Rachel screamed. And then they stopped talking.

ooooOOOOoooo

"I want to go back to London."

"Keep your head tilted and stop moving, else I shall box your ears," Nathaniel said severely. He was applying something to the bite he'd left on her neck. He'd broken the skin. It hurt like hell. Rachel kept wanting to press on it. He was being annoying and insisting on cleaning it and bandaging it properly.

"Yes, Dr. Essex," she said, rolling her eyes, and yelped when he pinched her upper arm, hard. "Ow! Okay, I'm not moving."

"Good girl." He patted her on the head. Rachel sort of hated the warm rush of pleasure his approval gave her. Oh, well. This was what it was, and she wasn't going to pretend she didn't like the things she liked. She was finished with self-denial for the moment. "And you are certain?" Nathaniel asked, fingers oddly gentle against her neck. "Your family shall be a bother, you realize."

"Essex, it's only fair. Maybe you should see how you like having the Summers family bothering _you_ for once."

He looked briefly startled, then laughed. It was an honest laugh, too. Low and warm. If she'd not been insanely sated from what they'd just done in the attic, she may have wanted to have sex with him just for that laugh. It was nice to be attracted to things other than the way he hurt her. Nice, but sort of frightening, too.

"I suppose that is true. However, I have ended up with you, vexing woman, and that is likely their revenge."

Rachel used her telekinesis to throw a paperweight from the desk at his head. He reached up and caught it with preternatural speed and smirked at her. She scowled, and he kissed her. It was a nice kiss, too. For them, anyway. No one bit. That qualified as nice, to her.

Mollified, she let him finish bandaging her neck. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his back was streaked with blooded scratches already healing. Rachel gave as good as she got. "So, London? I'm not cut out for gentry living, Nathaniel."

"London it is, then." He finished with the bandages. "We can leave now, if you like."

She bit her lip. "Could we...um. Your house, it's...ah. I was wondering if maybe we could get another one."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You wish us each to have our own?"

Sometimes his understanding of things was frighteningly literal. Rachel shook her head, smiling a little. "No, I just...maybe one that's just ours. Not your house. Our house?" She felt stupid.

He didn't seem to find the question strange. He just shrugged. "As you wish."

There was probably something nice about being with someone without any emotions. Though she didn't really think that was true, anymore. Maybe Apocalypse's modifications were beginning to wear thin. Maybe one day he'd wake up and have them all back. Maybe one day he'd be Nathaniel Essex again, instead of Sinister.

_That wouldn't be all bad,_ Rachel thought carefully. _I could deal with that._

He was watching her. If he heard her thoughts, he did not respond to them. He stood up, taking the used bandage wrappers and the cream he'd put on her neck with him. "Your family will try and kill me," he said honestly.

"They'll have to get over it," Rachel said, standing up. She touched her fingers idly to her neck. Pressed against the bandage.

Nathaniel laughed. "They shan't, and Rachel, do stop poking that bandage, else I shall tie your arms behind your back."

"I could always disintegrate the restraints," she said, rather brattily, and he tilted his chin up towards the ceiling. His version of rolling his eyes, since she couldn't see his pupils.

"I shall just tie them again. I have endless amounts of patience," he said, leaning against the wall. He was smiling. Relaxed. In that moment, despite his odd appearance, he looked more human in than Rachel had ever seen him.

"That's probably going to be a good thing," she said, smiling.

Rachel looked outside. Dark had fallen. They could leave for London in the morning. The future, and whatever it meant for the two of them, would come with the daylight. That was good enough for her.

Fin


End file.
